The Crash
by dancesabove
Summary: It took a serious accident to make two colleagues admit their feelings for each other — and to realize what a marvellous team they made.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Crash

Author: dancesabove

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and I in no way profit from the story I've written.

Rating: K+ for now

Pairing: Samantha Stewart and Christopher Foyle

A/N: This A/U story of Sam and Mr Foyle is based on scenes in "The French Drop." It's my first about the couple, and I'm still not altogether sure where it will go, so I welcome your feedback.

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><p>It happened just after Sam had proudly told her boss about the packet and map she had found hidden in the phone box, and they passed Marion Greenwood in a car en route to Hill House. Suddenly Sam said nervously to DCS Foyle, "Do you know… there's something wrong with—uh—"<p>

"Sam," Foyle said questioningly, his face growing tense as he sensed her mounting panic, "what's going on?"

"The wheel," she blurted, at the same time that he spoke. It's steering—"

She struggled to remain calm, but was seized with fear. Her foot upon the brake pedal was not slowing the car, and the steering was completely out of her control.

"I can't get it… Sir!"

Immediately after they very nearly collided with an oncoming lorry, Sam employed a tremendous desperate yank of the steering wheel to the right, swearing as they plunged straight into a wooden garden shed. At last the car came to a stop with its bonnet partially penetrating the small building, which peeled some of its slats from the shock of the impact.

She raised her head slowly, aware of a horrendous pain in her face where she had sustained a hard bump of her brow line and the side of her nose on the steering wheel. Removing her cap and rubbing her throbbing head she could see a scarlet streak glisten on the fingers of her glove. Then she looked to her left and her heart was gripped with terror.

Foyle was leaning crumpled against the passenger door with his head against the window, bleeding profusely from his nose and from an ugly gash across his brow, and evidently unconscious.

"Mr Foyle! Sam cried, then said under her breath, "Oh dear Lord," as she moved closer and patted his right hand. "Mr Foyle?" No response. Sam's eyes widened in horror as she wondered if he were alive, and she fumbled to remove her gloves and feel for his pulse, but her own heart was thundering and she could not seem to find one. Fighting back tears she twisted about, glancing desperately all around. Foyle's hat had been partly crushed by his head's impact on the dashboard, and she picked it up from the floor as she tried to slow down her racing brain and decide what to do.

Her side of the car was wedged in such a way against the wood of the structure that she could not open her door, but should she open the passenger door, Mr Foyle might fall out of the car. She examined him for some sign that it would not be a good idea to move him, not quite knowing what that would be. His body appeared unhurt, so gingerly she tested the state of his neck, gently pressing into the area below his ears and the lower edge of his hair. Even in this crisis she was aware of the strangeness of touching him so much. She had daydreamed about it often enough, but in the dreams he was always—

_Oh Sam, pull yourself together! _She hissed at herself.

When she had satisfied herself that his neck was unbroken she began to try pulling him away from the door so that he would lean back against his seat enough to allow her to climb over him. It took her several tries to pull his shoulders forward and toward her as he was…

_Don't think of the term "dead weight…"_

But she managed to tug until he cleared the door.

Samantha winced and could not suppress a terrified sob at the thick, dark blood obscuring the lower part of his face, but the only thing she could think of to do was leave the car and go for some kind of help—the owner of the shed, a car making its way along the road, anything. She clambered awkwardly over him and opened the passenger-side door. Once perched on its seat she removed her handkerchief and cleared some of the coagulating blood from Foyle's nose, whereupon she felt the faintest hint of an exhalation and went limp with relief.

"Hang on a mo, Sir and I'll be back with help," she told the insensible man, and rose, wiping her tears with another corner of the cloth as she ran around the farm building.

Within three minutes she and the owner of the property returned to the car. Alderson had no telephone, but he and his wife offered to help the distraught young woman in any way that they could. She had apologized for the damage but explained how she had completely lost control of her automobile. Despite her own slight facial injuries and her frightened tears, her uniform and her determination to help her companion as quickly and efficiently as possible gave her an air of self-control that earned their admiration.

Mrs Alderson rushed to the house of a neighbour to solicit his help and send his youngster for the doctor, while her husband accompanied Sam back to the car to assess how best to remove Foyle from it.

"Steady, now." Neighbour Mr MacDougal and Mr Alderson pulled Mr Foyle from the car onto a blanket close to the roadside, where Mrs Alderson and Sam watched for cars in each direction.

"Let's see if we can make a stretcher of it," MacDougal suggested, and with a rough approximation fashioned, the men carried Foyle into the house.

Dr Halstead glanced at the young woman who sat beside the man's bed, fidgeting and letting her knees bounce with anxiety. She had explained as he bathed the patient's bloodied face that this man was her boss, a policeman, but it seemed obvious to him that she cared deeply for him and was half out of her head with worry.

"He was lucky—no broken bones," the doctor assured Sam. "He stood a good chance of breaking his nose, but he hit his head a bit above it. That is why he is so soundly out, but he should come to, quite soon. Try not to worry." He shook his head grimly, slightly more worried about Foyle than he wanted to admit to Sam just yet. _This is why I still believe we should put restraining belts in motorcars, as they do in Sweden._

The chief superintendent lay motionless, breathing shallowly. Sam tried to down the cup of tea Mrs Alderson had brought her, but was too agitated to do much more than sit at Foyle's bedside fretting. The doctor at length left for another call but said he would check back in an hour or so.

"Let us know, dear, when he wakes, and if there is anything you should need," Mrs Alderson said sympathetically. She found Sam's concern for her employer touching, and she and Mr Alderson had more than once had to stop the young woman from apologizing to them again.

Sam thanked their kind neighbour as he and Mr Alderson exited to work out removing the car from the shed.

Alone with Mr Foyle and her fears for him, Sam shamelessly broke down and wept; her own face stung sharply, but nothing was hurting as much as her terror that he wouldn't wake up, or would not be the same when he did. She left the chair beside the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, looking down at Foyle's face.

_He looks like he's asleep, though slightly less peaceful, as if he were having a tense dream…_

Nervously, finding herself atremble to be doing so, she smoothed three fingers over the creases on his forehead as if to iron them out, and very lightly over the injured spot between his eyebrows.

She hadn't even worked with him a full year yet, but had cared about him for so long—really only about a week after meeting him she had begun to look forward to her job much more than she'd ever anticipated anything, and it wasn't just the excitement of working with him on cases. He was almost as old as her father, and not exactly youthful in mien, but there was something about his treatment of her and his quiet charm and his intense eyes that crept into her thoughts and made her wonder if he could possibly wish to be anything other than a paternal figure toward her. And the unbidden dream she had had one night last week—Sam blushed to think of it and stole a quick glance at his face again.

_Would it be as lovely to be kissed by him as it had been in the dream?_

Sam stood and paced the room, wringing her hands. This is why it just hadn't felt right to keep walking out with his son last autumn. The moment Andrew kissed her after their first real date, she had known. Nothing improper; Andrew had been very gentlemanly. Still, surely one would feel a spark even in that chaste sort of kiss, if that were what was meant to be.

_I feel more electricity when Mr Foyle so much as looks into my _eyes_ a certain way. When he wakes from this, I am going to tell him. It might be embarrassing; he may laugh at me for having a childish crush…_

But she had to find out whether his unmistakably admiring glances and his sweetness to her (and maybe even his occasional gruffness toward her) were in any way indicative of any similar sentiment on his part.

Weary and nursing a badly aching head, Sam pulled the straight-backed chair to the side of the high bed and rested her head on her folded arms just beside DCS Foyle's shoulder. She was careful not to touch him—if he did awake she didn't want to disconcert him—but she had to be near. It was very important to be almost touching.

About half an hour ticked by after she fell into a deep sleep, so she was unaware that her boss was struggling through searing pain to consciousness. He came to so gradually that at first he thought he was dreaming; he was in a cottage he'd never seen before, asleep in a strange bed. And Sam had her head bent beside his arm, nestled on her forearms as she slept in what looked like an uncomfortable position. Foyle took stock of everything in the oddly comforting dream again; then the memory of the accident seeped back into his mind. Finally, hardly having moved, he realized that he truly was in a bed in a stranger's house.

_Maccoby. He must have done something to the car. Hmm. Just as Stafford so obliquely warned._

Even as he figured out what had likely happened, he remembered that Sam might also have been hurt. That she didn't also have to lie down was a good sign, at least.

He raised his left hand to try to touch her shoulder, but his whole body ached with the effort and he instead only slid it toward her until he could lightly brush her forearm with his fingers.

"Sam."

He had to say it twice, and push his fingers into her arm with slightly more pressure, before she raised her head. She looked peculiar with the red marks of her injuries lining her brow and a bit of her nose; nevertheless her smile made her radiantly beautiful and from her eyes shone something stronger than mere relief. He swallowed hard, feeling tears spring into his own eyes.

_She looks overjoyed. I must have scared her._

He squinted with concern. "You all right?"

"Am _I_ all right!" There was sunny laughter in her voice. "That is the question I was just about to ask you!" Her face was still lit with happiness. He was the same Christopher Foyle; she could tell even after only these few words because he'd already let so many expressions cross his face, and now his lips and eyes were smiling, too.

Christopher was almost forgetting the pain it cost him to smile, he was so busy drinking in how lovely Sam was. And there was something more making his heart take flight—the way she was looking at him was beyond polite gladness, it was quite plain.

_Could she possibly—?_

He mentally shook that thought out of his head, as he had so many times before.

_She was worried because you were unconscious. You're awake and she is glad of it. You both came out of what could have been fatal. That is why she glows that way._

His expression began to mirror hers, and she too was aware of a new look in his eyes that she could not remember experiencing before. It was rather like the look of fond amusement he sometimes had for her, as when he knew perfectly well that she had raced to arrive before his bus after misplacing the car's distributor cap. But mixed in there was a look of tenderness that made her heart skip a few beats. She looked down and noticed that his hand still rested against her arm, rather as it sometimes rested near or right beside her shoulder when he'd casually lay his arm along the seatback.

_Did he notice it when he did that? Would he believe me if I told him how I'm affected by that merest touch? How I have to concentrate to keep the road if I can feel his fingers move?_

Foyle looked down at their contact, too, and unobtrusively moved his hand away, though he felt like taking her hand in his. She rolled her bottom lip slightly in disappointment, but didn't lose her joyful relief in knowing that he would be all right.

"Even overdoing the Glenlivet never gave me a headache like this one," he told her, "but otherwise I think I'll survive." He peered at the inverted C of damaged skin curving around her right eye. "How do you feel?"

Just then Mrs Alderson knocked softly at the door and entered the bedroom. "Your boss is awake, Miss Stewart?" She beamed at the sleepy-eyed Foyle. "How are you?"

"This is Mrs Alderson—it was her shed we took a header into," Sam explained quickly.

Foyle twinkled at their hostess. "Hardly seems a fair exchange for all this fine care." They all laughed together.

The older lady assured them that no great harm was done, and updated them that thankfully, even the Wolseley had not sustained too much damage. It still was running, albeit with a few dents in its front wing and bonnet. "But you are welcome to stay here as long as you need to. This is a spare room, and you both—"

Mrs Alderson was suddenly quite flustered.

_Now, why was I forgetting that these two aren't married? Perhaps because they look at each other as if they'd like to be…_

"—er, and the living room sofa is quite comfortable."

Foyle's eyes met Sam's. "I think as long as I don't keel over when I attempt to stand, we shall be able to finish our business this afternoon—that is, if you feel up to it, Sam." She nodded. "But if we stay another night," he explained, "it can be with Sam's uncle at the vicarage."

Sam felt a spring of hope that they might be a pair of houseguests for a little while longer, whether in this cozy place or back at Uncle Aubrey's. Being under the same roof with her boss allowed her to pretend, as she had the time she had stayed in his spare room, that they were…

Uncle Aubrey was in fact now in the Aldersons' living room, chatting with Paul Milner as Foyle walked slowly toward one of the chairs, Sam lending him support at one arm.

_Oh, splendid. I must seem more an old man to her than ever,_ he mused grumpily as she and Milner helped him sit. He answered the men's inquiries as to how he was feeling.

Christopher smiled at Mrs Alderson as she brought in a vast tray of tea things. "Except for moving like a man of 80 and having quite the headache, I'm fine, thank you." He smiled at Uncle Aubrey. "I'm sorry you had to be alarmed about your niece."

The vicar sputtered humourously. "I do believe she came out of the bang-up the better for wear than you did, but I wanted to be quite sure you both were in one piece. And Sergeant Milner came down…" he nodded toward Milner.

"I'm glad to see you're all right, Sir," Milner nodded, with the warm concern often present in his eyes. "Came down by train. And I wasn't alone; I was following Marion Greenwood."

Foyle was listening carefully, already back on duty. "Know where she went?"

"She jumped in a taxi at the station, and guess where it took her…" Paul looked wryly amused.

"Hill House?"

Milner gave a slight nod.

They all enjoyed the generous tea and Foyle insisted that the Hastings Police Department would reimburse the Aldersons so that they could replace their storage building. He didn't add that he intended to bill the Special Operations Executive for it in turn, as he was certain that one of its mysterious inhabitants had tried to kill him, and it was the very least the shady (if necessary) operation could do.

"Is this any help, Sir?" Sam asked, at last able to show Foyle the map and letter she had taken from the out-of-order phone box near Beeches Lane.

He examined it, massaging his aching brow and squinting hard for a moment. "Yes."

"A map of Rouen?"

"Well, it seems it's a copy of a map of Rouen used by an agent, according to this letter."

"Ten-ten-forty—that's a map reference, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Foyle asked her, looking thoughtful. "Did you see who left this?"

"Uhm—I didn't see his face, but it wasn't a bald man," said Sam, referring to the description Uncle Aubrey had earlier given her of a loiterer around the churchyard.

Foyle looked admiringly at Sam's expression of concentration. Although she had seemed just a bit smug in the car earlier when she triumphantly told him how she had made away with the map, she was never one to play at being more knowledgeable about cases or detecting than she really was. Yet she was a straightforward solver, sometimes even brilliant in the way she observed and considered evidence.

"This is all Hill House, isn't it?" Uncle Aubrey said of the clues, in a resigned sort of way. "That's what it all comes down to."

Foyle's eyes shifted before he spoke. "That and your church, Sir."

When Uncle Aubrey expressed curiosity, Foyle told them of his suspicions concerning the body of the young builder who had died, and broke it to Reverend Stewart that they could prove his theory only by disturbing the peace of his churchyard. Waiting for the grave to be re-opened, the chief detective began to fear that he had not fully recovered from his blow to the head; even the wan February sunlight stung his eyes and he wished mightily that he could lie down.

Nevertheless Foyle, upon finding Ted Harper's coffin empty as he had suspected, returned to Hill House to arrest Maccoby again and set Lieutenant Colonel Wintringham straight on a spy in the midst of his spies. Most taxing for Foyle was the decision to comply with Hilda Pierce's plea that he not reveal to the Sir Giles Messingers how their son truly died. His chief concern was that Sir Giles and Lady Anne not be left believing that their son had committed suicide when he had actually died in action, but Hilda had convinced him only to wait before revealing the truth.

The final strain of the day was the worst, he found. When he withheld the information from the Messingers as Hilda had asked, Sir Giles concluded that he was inept and told him he could forget any hopes he had had of working with the intelligence service.

The DCS was still brooding about this later as the team at last drove toward Hastings. Sam and Milner animatedly planned how they would make the most of the huge onion Paul had won in the raffle, but found their boss uncharacteristically distant and silent.

_At least none of this can take away that beautiful expression I saw earlier today on Sam's face. If there could possibly be any hope for me… if her breaking up with Andrew after a month could have been because she cares for me, instead…_ He shook his head. "You're being ridiculous, Foyle," Christopher mumbled under his breath.

Milner's eyes met Sam's in the rear view mirror. "Sir? Are you feeling quite well?"

Foyle blinked slowly. _Wait, what did I just say? Or did I say…?_

"I—I'm afraid the headache has worsened a bit," he said, de-emphasising the reality, which involved something that felt like pincers applied to the brain. The pain was worst just above his eyes, which were practically watering from it. He rubbed his forehead and tightly shut eyelids, finding momentary relief from the massaging pressure.

They drove in silence for a time; then Sam glanced at him to find that he was asleep. But something was off. It wasn't that he had never slept while she drove before, but normally it was a light doze, his hat pulled down slightly over his eyes. Now he looked as absent from her, as deep under as he had looked when knocked out. Suddenly alarmed, Sam touched his right arm, even shook it slightly. "Sir?"

No response.

"Sergeant—Paul—I'm worried about Mr Foyle," she told Milner, who already had moved forward on the back seat to tap Foyle's shoulder. He furrowed his brow in thought.

"Sam, how much further have we to go?"

She checked the odometer. "I would say about an hour, maybe less."

Milner glanced out the window, but their landscape was rural and pitch dark at the moment. Part of what had slowed them down this past hour was the snail's pace it took to drive an automobile with shuttered headlamps through a blackout.

"I think we'd best just plough on through, then," he advised, though his face plainly showed indecisive worry.

Sam nodded, throwing another anxious look at Mr Foyle. "He looks so pale."

Milner felt for the older man's pulse. "His heartbeat's rather fast. Feels a bit as if his temperature is elevated, too. As soon as we reach his home, I'll telephone for a doctor."

No one-hour trip ever felt longer to Sam, and she was just as much on pins and needles awaiting the arrival of a physician once she and Milner had placed the DCS in his bed.

At long last Dr Dougherty arrived and carefully lifted each of Foyle's eyelids to examine his eyes with a light, took his temperature, and tested his reflexes.

"He's not in a coma," he told Sam and Milner, "but close to. If he is not conscious by morning, or gains any temperature, I'll have him taken to hospital. But I want to wait and see. I believe that hard rap on his head, together with an exhausting day, has made him a bit feverish and above all, in need of a long rest." He paused, glancing around. "Andrew is not at home now?"

Samantha and Paul shook their heads.

"Hmm. Can one of you stay here with him? I'd rather he not be left alone."

The police department colleagues looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. How proper would it be, really, for Sam to stay there? Milner would be far too busy wrapping up the loose ends of the Hill House shenanigans, and then there was the Danvers case. But after all, she had stayed with Mr Foyle before, when bombed out of her house. In a way it made perfect sense for her to be his companion for a day or two, just as she would be if driving him around. They discussed all this, and Sam endeavored not to blush as she guiltily thought how glad she was that she would get to stay here alone with this man again, though she hardly would wish upon him the reason.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Two hours later Sam had prepared for bed, having collected from her flat some things she routinely needed while Milner watched over the DCS. The nightgown and dressing gown she had selected were a bit more feminine-looking than her pyjamas; if he woke in the night she wanted to look appealing to him.

_Though he'll probably be in little condition to care. Oh, I __**do**__ hope he will come out of this soon._

Sam had dragged the small easy chair from the corner of his bedroom so that she was sitting close by his side. A book lay in her lap, but she had yet to read it. Each time she gazed down at Mr Foyle's face her heart lurched with worry, and from time to time she bathed his battered forehead with a cool wet cloth. At least his temperature seemed not to have climbed.

It gave her an odd little thrill to study his sleeping face; even during the time she had stayed with him before she had never seen him doze in his chair by the fire, and when he slept in the Wolseley as they drove she could only glance over at his hat-obscured visage. In contrast to the stressful lines that had tugged between his eyes just after the accident, his brow was now smooth, his eyebrows relaxed. He so often arched the left eyebrow that it seemed to have a permanent faint crook, but rarest of all was to see his mouth so still, as he so often was twisting his lips slightly up and to the side or pulling in a little on his inner cheek, even while listening to others or silently contemplating something.

_In her dream those nicely shaped lips had been firm as they caressed hers, rendering her quite weak in the knees…_

Sam ducked her head and felt her face go hot. Good job he wasn't awake to see her mooning about him, she thought. When would be the right time to tell him? She just had to, even if it meant he was amused by it. She knew he would never laugh at her, but even a gentle rejection would depress her, she well knew. She could sense his disappointment when he'd told her at Uncle Aubrey's that he would not be leaving Hastings after all, but she had guiltily felt a flood of relief to learn it—she didn't want him to go.

_More important, when will he wake up and tell me again that he's going to be all right?_

Sam rose and paced for a few minutes, examining some of the everyday items in this room of Christopher's where she'd never before been. Atop the chest of drawers were his comb and brush, a tiny standing mirror, and a small green enamel tray for a watch and cufflinks; between these items and the lamp lay a copy of Green's _Pack My Bag_, a pencil and a notepad with scribblings ("Tell Milner phone Danvers," "Liverpool"), a few ration coupons, a neatly folded necktie, and a toy car that must have belonged to Andrew. She smiled in puzzlement as she fingered it, then moved on.

Rosalind's vanity was adorned with a single cosmetic jar with a lovely glass sculpture lid, and a framed photograph of Mr Foyle and Rosalind and Andrew, taken when the boy was about three years old, at a guess. Though possessing darker and more abundant hair and a lankier figure, Christopher in his late twenties already had the somehow faintly melancholy smile she was quite used to seeing; even some of today's lines about his eyes and forehead were present. It flitted across her mind that the First War probably aged him ahead of his time. He had his arm around his wife and an ebullient Andrew was hugging his calf; they appeared to be down by the river in summer casual attire.

_To think that when he was a grown man, I still was a little-one, like Andrew here. Yet I don't regard Mr Foyle as a father. I think of him as a friend, a person more experienced, but… not __**that**__ much older. And I daydream of him in a much more intense way than I should ever think of an older man or father figure. There's something youthful and energetic about the way he walks and moves, the way his eyes look into mine. And I long to know if he would be as… as carried away as a young man, if we ever…_

Sam heard Mr Foyle shift restlessly in the bed behind her, and she hurried over to him. His eyes still were closed, but when she rested the back of her hand against his warm cheek, he struggled to open them. "Sam? Wh… what are you doing here?"

She smiled broadly, once again vastly relieved to see him awake and apparently his normal self. "The doctor asked me to look after you for a day or so. Sergeant Milner really couldn't stay and, well, we decided I'd be Florence Nightingale." She sat in the chair again and peered at his face. "How are you feeling?"

He tried to sit up, but the pincers were back again.

_Blast! An evening with Sam right here in my room and it has to be because I'm under the weather._

As the head pain subsided and his vision improved, he realised that Sam was wearing a soft white nightie and a silky blue rayon dressing gown tied at her slim waist. Her red-gold hair was flowing over her shoulders and her dark eyes were studying him with sleepy concern and affection. In the golden lamplight she somehow looked angelic and a touch sultry at the same time.

_An evening with Sam right here in my room, and she's looking delectable._

"Head still aches. Could you…?" He hesitated, hospitably not wanting to treat her as an underling in his home.

"Could I what?" Sam asked him encouragingly.

"Could _we_ go downstairs for a cup of tea? And maybe some aspirin?"

"Something a bit stronger than that, left here by Mr Dougherty. Here's some water. I'll be back with your tea in a jiffy."

"No, no—" he faltered. She looked back at him, puzzled.

He chewed his lip awkwardly. "We, umm, we should go sit in the front room while you make the tea. Or while we drink the tea." He fought to avoid blushing. It was overpowering to have her looking like that in his bedroom, regardless of his weakened state. Headache or no, he could already feel stirrings of arousal at having her so near him here in a place where he had so often fantasised about her.

He moved back his bedcovers and began slowly to test how he'd do if he stood up, careful to keep his back to Samantha until he had made sure his pyjamas draped enough to hide his potentially embarrassing condition. Fortunately Milner had placed his dressing gown on the other side of the bed and Foyle was able to reach and put that over his arm before turning to Sam, who had tentatively moved closer to make sure he would remain unwavering on his feet.

"All right, then, let's see how I do," he said after donning his slippers. He took a few steps toward the door, and though his brow still throbbed, he seemed to have his balance and could see clearly enough. Close by his side as he made his way slowly down the stairs was Sam, the clean light scent of her skin sending pleasant chills up his spine.

They walked into the living room, and she kept a wary eye on him until he was seated facing the hearth.

Intently watching Sam kneel to light the coals once she had put the kettle on, Foyle took a deep, shaky breath.

_When she asked me day before yesterday what she would do without me, I could barely contain my joy. I had been wondering the same thing; what would I do without her? I wasn't sure she meant anything more by that than, 'Where would I find a job if you left?', but if I could believe she would miss me more than the job… Could I really have moved to Liverpool and taken an assignment that would probably mean not seeing her for years? What would her parents have said to my asking her to relocate with me? 'Make me an honorary Wren'... _He shivered._ What I __**want**__ to make her is my wife…_

"Sir?"

Sam had returned with his cup of tea and was visibly worried that she'd had to speak to him more than once to shake him from his daze.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Sam. I was lost in thought." He smiled fondly at her perplexed face as she sat beside him on the settee. "I don't think my brain has been damaged, honestly. But what about _you_?" He examined her light facial wounds, his face near enough hers for her to feel his breath, and she blushed under such close scrutiny. "Are you sure you're back to normal? You took rather a hard knock, as well."

"Oh, well, not tickety-boo by any means, but certainly functional," she said blithely.

_Tell him. Tell him. Tell him._

She just couldn't; it didn't seem the right moment. _Wait until he is completely well._

Sam stood. "There were some biscuits in the cupboard," she said, her voice unnaturally high-pitched. "Care for some?"

He smiled. "No, but please, do help yourself."

At least the medicine seemed to be doing its work and the pain behind his eyes had diminished, although he was again feeling sleepy. By the time Sam returned, Christopher was labouring to keep his eyes open.

"You know," she said, looking at him with fond exasperation as she sat beside him again. "I don't quite understand why you couldn't keep your bed to have a spot of tea."

_Good. Then you didn't notice._

He cleared his throat. "I… well, I just wanted to make sure I was ambulatory as usual, could get down the stairs if I had to; all that."

Sam finished chewing a biscuit and swallowed quickly to say firmly, "No matter how ambulatory and well you might think yourself, Doctor says you are to stay in tomorrow and rest." She smiled with impish satisfaction.

"Mmm." His eyes shifted sideways as he thought about the mountain of things he needed to do.

"I know that look. That is what he said, Sir, and that is what you shall do. Even if I have to watch over you every moment to make sure of it!"

He rather liked the idea that she wouldn't let him out of her sight. _If she only knew what I'd like to do with her,_ he thought with a pang of guilt, s_he might not be so eager to be my sickbed companion. _He surreptitiously glanced to his side again, admiring the warm flush on her face. _Lord, Sam by firelight is not much safer than Sam in my bedroom._ He sighed deeply, which she took for impatience with his enforced rest.

"Oh, it won't be so bad, Sir. We could play some chess. I'll make you a nice lunch. If you don't want me chattering, I'll be as quiet as a mouse, truly."

Foyle couldn't repress a little smile. One thing that had certainly made his job easier to withstand these past nine months, and lessened the frustration of not contributing more to the war effort, was having this young woman in his life day after day. Her sensible, thoughtful, sparkling ways made her both unusually mature and excitingly youthful. Perhaps Sam was not as experienced in life as he, but he was not inclined to consider her in any way childish or dismissive of his generation.

_I already know I am happy with her, even if there can be no romance between us. But she'd be uncomfortable if she knew that I care for her and want her as much as I admire her. She deserves a younger suitor._

But even as he tried to convince himself of this, another voice in his head answered him back. _No, you don't really mean that. Admit it, Foyle; you were relieved when she broke it off with Andrew. And not just because of the way he tends to treat women._

_Yes, I __**was**__ relieved, _retorted Foyle to the voice. _My son doesn't merit such a gem of a girl, at least not yet._

_And __**you**__ do? _The voice asked. _What makes you so sure that you're more deserving?_

_I'm not at all sure, _he thought gloomily. _There's no reason for Sam to prefer me. But she and Andrew—you have to admit that they were simply mismatched. Sam is just more grown-up and level-headed than Andrew, and more considerate._

_And so she needs someone more grown-up, someone more considerate than Andrew?_

_Right._

_And you think that someone is __**you**__?_

_Er_—

Struggling with these thoughts yet again was enervating. He blinked, weariness overtaking him.

Sam jumped up. "I'm taking you back to bed," she declared, failing to notice his wide-eyed amusement at her guileless turn of phrase.

"Yes, Miss Stewart."

In the morning Samantha, who'd been up and dressed for a couple of hours, was wondering if there might be anything in the larder with which she could stretch two eggs. She had checked on Mr Foyle first thing, and to her relief he was sleeping soundly, but not with that coma-like quality she had witnessed with such distress twice the day before. His temperature seemed normal and although he now had dark bruises between his eyes and along one eyebrow, his abrasions were healing.

After bathing she had examined her own face in the mirror; her minor injuries also looked a bit improved but for some purpling patches of skin. "You should see the _other_ guy," she said to her image in the mirror, having heard this in an American movie once. She'd laughed to herself as she dressed in a carefully selected outfit: appropriate but attractive green sweater set and beige skirt.

After deciding she'd have toast and give her patient both the eggs, adding to them the paltry amount of cheese that was left, plus (with a shrug) some trusty carrot shavings, Sam created an omelet of sorts and carried it up with tea on a tray. She was happy to hear water running behind the closed bathroom door, but knocked lightly. "Breakfast in bed!"

Christopher paused in his shaving, called, "Be right there," and finished up. Sam was surprised as he re-entered the bedroom to see that he was dressed in a shirt, trousers and even a waistcoat, though in a concession to relaxation he wore no tie, had left the top button of his shirt undone, and had on slippers. He was freshly shaved and smelled wonderful—his aftershave was one of the things she most looked forward to when she came to collect him each morning.

He smiled at her. "I promise to rest, Miss Stewart, but there's no need to get back in bed."

She nodded. "Follow me, then!" She listened as he walked behind her, glad to hear him moving down the steps at a less halting pace than the day before, and she put his plate and tea things on the dining table. She even had a fire going in the room's grate.

"The doctor said he'd be coming by sometime this morning," she said between sips of tea.

Foyle took a few bites of his omelet. "This is very nice, Sam. Thank you."

She smiled happily. "You will need to lay in a few groceries tomorrow. Not a great deal left! For lunch we could have some soup; would that suit? There is a chicken leg I could cut up, and plenty of barley. I could run round to the bakery and get us some bread to go with it." She bit into her toast.

He nodded, feeling a sort of sweet weight in his chest at how comfortable all this was. She fit right in, here in his home, and he knew that part of his willingness to go along with the plan to rest (though he was reasonably sure he was not too impaired to go ahead to work) was the opportunity to pretend they were living here together, if only for the one day.

Sam noticed his silence and glanced at him to find that he was gazing at her tenderly. Her heart leapt in her chest and for a moment she could not take her eyes from his.

_What is he thinking? That I am kind to be planning his lunch? Or could he possibly feel about me the way I do about him? Before this day is over, I am going to tell him. But in case he would only be shocked and perturbed by my telling him, I'll wait until I've had some hours with him here. Somehow I'll know when the moment is right._

"Sam, I just wanted to say… well, 'thank you.' Dr Halstead told me you may well have saved my life, and certainly you acted most sensibly and quickly in response to something far beyond your control."

She blushed with embarrassed pleasure at his praise, but to her amazement she found he was only beginning.

"I'm often impressed with that in you. You keep your wits about you even in crises. Also, the clues you found were helpful in solving the case before we left Leavenham. I do worry when I learn that you've chanced something risky, but… well, you were brave, Sam." Each end of his mouth took the slight downturn that showed he was trying to hold in a broad smile. Far from seeming less affectionate, it felt even fonder, especially given the look in his eyes.

Had a knock not sounded at the front door at that moment, Sam was to wonder later, what might she have found the courage to say?

Dr Dougherty examined Foyle closely and declared him sound. "Good job you had such a fine nurse," he told the patient, nodding toward Sam with a smile. The fine nurse had eyes only for her boss, so he turned to Christopher again. "You're probably thinking you could have functioned without the rest today, but I assure you, it has not been in vain." Alas Foyle, although verbally thanking him, was not looking at him, either. The doctor peered at the policeman, whom he'd known for 25 years. He hadn't seen that look for nine of them.

The expression in the young lady's eyes was just as laden with devotion. _Well... why not?_ Dougherty mused. _He's been alone all these years, and she is mature in attitude if not age._ "You'll be able to stay about until evening, Miss Stewart? That would be advisable."

"Of course, sir," Sam responded, trying not to sound over-eager.

"Good. Christopher, I'm so pleased that you followed my directive for a change. Be cautious even tomorrow if you do choose to work, and disinfect the cut; but thanks to Samantha, you should be yourself again."

After reading for a few hours, Sam and Christopher dined on fresh bread and a bit of chicken and barley soup. To his surprise he found sleepiness overtaking him shortly after lunch, and lolling his head at the edge of his chair-back, he dozed.

"Sir." Sam was concerned that he would not be comfortable. "Perhaps you should go upstairs and nap?"

He looked at her sleepily. What time would he wake if he gave in to his heavy lids? He'd miss some of this relaxing time with her… "I should have asked Douglas whether there'd be any problem my taking a short walk."

Sam looked carefully at his eyes. _He looks fine, if a bit drowsy._ "We could just stroll round to the church and see how we fare."

The February afternoon was cold and gloomy, so Sam took down Foyle's heaviest overcoat and fleeciest wool scarf. He watched her studious face as she tied it snugly about his neck in readiness to help him into his coat, and after he helped her on with hers, off they set. All was quiet about the little stone church, and they ventured on to the High Street and to East Parade.

"Are you sure you're not tiring, Sir?"

Her boss shook his head. "I think the sea air will do me good. Care to walk by the water?"

They walked in a companionable silence toward the beach, each thinking how sad it was to see the seafront marred by tangles of precautionary barbed wire, but enjoying the brisk salty scent of the cold. From a storefront of the parade came a tinny bit of music from a gramophone. The couple stopped and craned to hear it over the small breakers.

Sam looked thoughtful. "Chopin?"

He readjusted his Trilby, gave a barely perceptible dip of his knees. "Mmm. Schubert, I think."

She nodded gravely. "Jenny used to play that. And Beethoven. Mainly to annoy Mrs. Harrison. She never wanted to hear any German music."

He gave a little smile, but could see the sorrow in Sam's eyes at the memory of a lost friend. He sought to divert her. "I used to play that one, though never that proficiently."

"Do you play? I never knew."

"Only a little. My mother's bid to make me a better class of policeman's son." This smile was slightly bitter.

Sam had a vivid image of him at a piano, his graceful hands moving deftly over the keys, his brow bent in concentration. "I should like to hear you, sometime." She smiled at him and his glumness was swept away.

"Not sure I've taken the cover from the piano in more than two years," he said with a wistful kind of laughter in his voice. _Rosalind would not have been happy about that. She always encouraged me to play more. It may be that thinking about that is why I'm not inclined to do it._

"I shall expect to hear you this afternoon, then. High time!"

Foyle was smiling openly, absurdly pleased that she was determined in the matter. "_If_ the piano's in tune." They strolled further, listening to gulls' baleful cries.

"Will you be working tomorrow, Mr Foyle?" Sam asked, given that it would be Saturday. She shivered and drew her coat lapels together.

"I'd like to go in and take care of at least a few things, Sam, but you needn't drive me. I seem to be doing well on a walk about that long."

"It's no trouble at all, Sir, and I haven't any plan." She glanced sidelong at his expression, and was gratified to see it brighten to some extent. "Are you sure there isn't anywhere you need to go, other than the station?"

"Well, if _you're_ sure you haven't anything you need to do, I should like to talk to Mrs Melcent about her son. That's Pevensey," he reminded her.

"Jolly good."

Foyle shook his head musingly. _She looks __**happy**__ to have to drive her boss nearly 20 miles on her day off. If only I could ask her why. She has friends and she has young men interested in her and she has plenty to keep her occupied. It isn't as if she were lonely. She likes you. Yes, of course she likes you. The two of you get on so comfortably now…_ He smiled to think of their first week or so together, before he had realised how much he enjoyed the chatter and curiosity that had at first seemed so intrusive. Things hadn't been as comfortable then. But it hadn't taken long for her to get under his skin in a more pleasant, if still unsettling way. He stopped in his tracks. "Sam."

She stopped, too, looking surprised and a trifle concerned, as if expecting him to tell her he was feeling poorly again.

He looked into her eyes and opened his mouth to say, 'Tell me why you'd want to spend your Saturday with me,' but he could not bring himself to it. His eyes shifted from hers, to her little hat, to the grey horizon. "Umm… Maybe we should think about heading back while I've still the energy."

She nodded slowly, though her eyes still lingered on his downcast ones, wondering if that really was what he had been about to say. Often she was so close to thinking he returned the way she felt about him; then she always managed to talk herself out of it. _He cares about me as a kind man would __**any**__ young woman working for him. If I told him how much he means to me, his eyes would grow large and he would be terribly embarrassed. He would be considerate and perhaps even tell me he is flattered. But he'd find the whole thing quite silly, and perhaps we'd be unable to get beyond it. Then the easy way we work together would be disrupted. If keeping my secret would preserve how we relate to each other, then maybe that's what I'd best do._

Sam suddenly felt as if, even later on, she'd never be able to broach this with him, and it made her expression bleak as they turned and made their way back toward Steep Lane.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A steady drizzle began as they made their way back to the parade, and Foyle attributed Sam's somewhat gloomy silence during their return to a determination to get through the damp cold as quickly as possible. Though feeling a little woozy again, he was sorely tempted to warm up with a whiskey once they were at last through the front door. He knew neither Sam nor Dougherty would approve.

"I've enough cocoa for us both, Sam. Interested?"

Sam nodded distractedly, following him to the kitchen.

_How did it get to be teatime so fast? Will he want me to stay for dinner? Please, God…. _

"Hope it's not so dreary tomorrow, Sir."

_Not very original, Samantha. _She sighed inwardly, mentally rolling her eyes._ Resorting to the weather. Honestly!_

"I hope we won't have to postpone tomorrow for a downpour." Foyle busied himself with heating milk for a few moments, the familiar routine not requiring much of his attention. Sam watched him, savouring the domesticity, but not distracted by it.

"You said that Mrs Melcent hasn't seen her son in nearly a week?"

"Yesss... but it didn't seem unusual to her at first—he sometimes goes off on 'benders,' as she described it. But I think for _this_ long isn't a good sign, especially as he has been running with what she perceives as rather a rough crowd."

"What sort of work does he do?" Sam enquired.

"Lorry driver, though she also said something about his having lost a position. If his employer is to be found on a Saturday, we might try to talk with him as well. Mrs Melcent fears that he may be involved in some black market activity."

Sam nodded pensively. "Saturday might be a better day than most to find his boss, as he's less likely to be on the road himself, or could be catching up on accounts."

Foyle agreed and nodded thoughtfully. "Why don't you wear smart civilian clothes tomorrow, instead of your uniform?"

Sam looked at him with a mixture of surprise and puzzlement. "Why, Sir?"

"I'd like you to be with me when I talk with Mrs Melcent. More as my assistant than my driver. That is to say, I want you to be there when I ask her questions, and to help me remember some of the details of what we learn."

"Really?" Sam could not suppress a gloriously proud grin and her brown eyes sparkled with the warmth he loved so much.

_To see her look that happy, I'd do most anything. But I __**do**__ want her to assist me. I can generally count on her not to make a wrong move; she asks excellent questions, and she often finds a way to lead the women I'm interrogating to say more than they usually would._

Secretly amused, he did his slight sideways dip. "Absolutely."

"Happy to help in any way I can, Sir."

Foyle was particularly glad he had saved the last of the drinking chocolate, as it seemed to have perked up his dear but dejected Sam to be sipping it, and was a fine means of warming themselves after such a cold walk.

"How quiet you were on our walk home," he observed as they took their mugs of cocoa into the front room. "Tired, Florence Nightingale?"

Sam wasn't tired. Quite the contrary: she felt as if her nerves would never still. Seeing him injured the day before, she had feared so much for his safety—and now, taking care of him in his own home, she found it difficult to think of things going back to the way they had been. She still hadn't got up the courage to say anything to him, despite the openings he had given her. It frightened her too much to think of losing him, in another way, if he were to turn her down and tell her that she was foolish to view him as more than her boss.

She quickly changed the subject, lest he think she was too tired for conversation. "Where _is_ that piano?"

With only a mild lift of one eyebrow as comment, he placed his cup on his side table and moved to a piece of furniture beside the door. Its brown cover had always obscured the upright instrument, and, what's more, Foyle had to move several books and a vase before lifting off the cover. Pulling the bench from underneath, he opened its lid and riffled through the sheets and slender books of music therein. He removed a selection of Schubert exercises and a book of Debussy, then turned to the Impromptu in G-flat Major, the piece they had heard earlier that afternoon on the shore.

Sitting, he experimented with a few chords. It could stand a tuning, but it would be adequate for his rusty skills. Standing beside the piano's cabinet, Sam raised her eyebrows first with anticipation, then approval as he began to play.

Christopher was relieved that some dormant memory helped him through the piece with barely any mistakes. He looked up to see Samantha's dark eyes shimmering. He said nothing, but regarded her with concern.

"Don't mind me," she said, sniffling discreetly. "It's just that I think you play beautifully." At his amused but skeptical expression she hastened to add, "No—truly. There is so much feeling that I didn't notice on the record..."

"We were just too far away," he murmured matter-of-factly, trying his hand at a Debussy Arabesque. To Sam he appeared very much as she had earlier imagined him, serene and graceful in his movements. He paused and they talked of favourite works for a while, and he was pleasantly surprised at the scope of her knowledge. Their only past conversations concerning music had been about popular stuff—music hall songs, swing orchestras. He had no real like or dislike of these genres, but he did feel a trifle out of his depth with more recent popular music.

"Did you ever play for a recital or performance?" she asked him.

He shook his head with a modest smile. "Just parties... dances... evenings at home." He suddenly remembered one such evening, when his wife had sat next to him and leant against his shoulder; how much he had liked her gentle presence as he swayed slightly upon the piano bench. His eyes took on a distant look as he resumed his playing, and briefly reflected sadness. Sam longed to sit beside him, but as she could not play, she reasoned that it would only seem odd to him.

Christopher halted again to work out an unfamiliar passage in the music. He smiled apologetically at the discord, but Sam's thoughts momentarily appeared to be elsewhere.

_She looks as if she has something on her mind, but isn't sure how to begin._

Sam was noting the waning light at the windows, which reminded her that their rare idyll was nearing its end. _If only Dr Dougherty had insisted that I stay another night. It would save me a ride home and back. _Her own practicality (and perhaps justification) amused her.

Her self-deprecating smile became shy. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

He stopped playing and waited. Usually, under other circumstances, she would immediately launch into the actual question without awaiting his affirmation, but this time she was still.

"Of course not. What is it?" He tipped his head, a puzzled little smile tugging at one edge of his mouth.

To Sam he seemed dearer than ever, and yet she knew what she was about to say might put everything they had together at risk.

"Wouldn't you have missed it here, if you had gone away?" She was no longer looking at him, but appeared to be studying the flames in the fireplace. He tried to read her posture and expression, but she was striving to look neutral.

_She wants to know whether I would miss working with her, and home and Hastings. And perhaps what would have happened to her job if I'd left. _

He skewed his mouth as he weighed the wisdom of telling her some half-truth. He did not want to hurt her feelings by implying that he would not have missed her. Part of him had hoped the move would help him get over her, if that were the way it had to be. No amount of distance would make him forget her.

"I've lived in Hastings nearly all my life, except during the last War. It's hard to know how I'd feel, but I would have adjusted, I expect. I'd hoped to be too busy to worry about it much."

Sam bit her lip. "Yes, but—"

"I knew it would affect your job, Sam, and I know you've been… that it has been a good fit. But I was confident that you could find another. You're so capable."

His face was giving nothing away. She shifted restlessly, then crossed the room to sit in the chair opposite his usual spot.

Christopher rose and sat in his chair, retrieving his now-lukewarm cocoa and absently circulating the cup by its rim in both hands.

"I've been trying for quite some time to get an assignment more relevant to the war effort, and my brother-in-law Charles alerted me to this post. I was offered one last spring, but that turned out to be Commissioner Summers' bid to get me removed from the case I was investigating before I discovered his involvement."

He paused for so long that Sam leant forward slightly in her chair, reminding him that she still was listening attentively.

Foyle cleared his throat. "They proposed the first assignment when we'd only just started to work together; before I knew you very well. When this one came up, I liked the idea of it, but it did bother me to think—" Sam looked at him expectantly, but his eyes were still focused on the mug in his hands. Suddenly he looked up and their eyes locked. Sam wondered if she were merely being fanciful in thinking that his words carried extra weight.

"—to realise that I _would_ miss it here, very much."

He broke their gaze first. "Shall we bundle up and go out to dinner before you go, Sam? It's the least I can do for you."

Luckily the dismal rain had subsided and the night was clear enough to reveal a few stars. Their stroll to dinner was far less bleak than their earlier excursion that day, though each kept drifting into his own thoughts and falling silent. Their conversation at the quiet little restaurant was a review of all that had happened in Leavenham—at least, all of it that Foyle was at liberty to tell her—and they filled each other in on each side of the discoveries. He asked her to thank her uncle once again for his hospitality, although they shared a laugh over Christopher's reluctance to go so far as to appreciate Aubrey's peculiar green wine.

Though unhappy to be ending their day, Sam felt a residual warmth from the more-substantial-than-usual meal and the glass of very _good _wine her dinner companion had encouraged her to have despite his own abstention. Wispy clouds were blowing past the moon as they left the restaurant, but the icy wind that accompanied this lovely tableau made her shiver.

_She didn't bring a heavy enough coat for this temperature. Well, how was she to know it would drop so sharply when she planned for a night away from home to help me? Her teeth are chattering!_

Christopher slipped his arm through Samantha's and directed them to walk close side-by-side. Her heart was in her throat in an instant, but she tried to hide this by taking a deep breath and launching into questions about their schedule next day. He was buoyed by the fact that she didn't flinch or seem uncomfortable at the contact; except for the occasional guiding hand at her back or brush of his shoulder near hers, it was the first time they'd ever touched.

_At least, the first time while he has been conscious,_ Sam smirked, after thinking precisely the same thing. So strong was her physical reaction to his nearness that she feared her digestive system would not react well to her generous meal. Another deep breath. _Calm down, Sam,_ she admonished herself.

The Wolseley had remained in front of the house for the day, so the plan was for her to drive it home and return for him at 9:00 a.m. Still, she would need to come back in the house and gather her things before she went back to her flat.

Sam's boss reluctantly released her arm and walked up the front steps ahead of her to unlock the door.

_It's only eight o'clock. I don't want her to go. _

Both were awkwardly silent as they entered the house.

"I'll just go pack up," she said quickly in a stilted way, then hurried up the stairs.

It took her barely any time at all to put her night things and uniform away in the small suitcase, and she checked the bathroom to see if she had left any items on the sink or bath ledge. Sam went back to Foyle's bedroom door and glanced in once more. His bed was still a bit rumpled and his pyjamas draped at the foot of the coverlet. Impulsively she crept in and sat where he had lain, smoothing one hand over the sheet, holding back tears. Somehow it felt as if she had been here far longer than one night and one day. How close she had come to losing him! She listened carefully for any sound of Christopher downstairs, then lay down in his place and held his pillow for a moment. Her stomach twisted into its oddly pleasant discomfort again as she breathed in his scent.

"Sam?"

She sat up in a shot, blushing profusely. Christopher stood in the doorway, drying his hands with a dish towel, looking genuinely worried.

"Are you all right?" He approached her as she stood up, lifting his hand as if to touch her wounded forehead, but stopped himself just in time. "Your head hurting you?"

She seized on his supposition and nodded, acutely embarrassed and wondering if he had any idea what she had really been doing in his bed. "I—yes, I suddenly felt just a bit dizzy, and…"

She waved vaguely at the bed and shrugged one shoulder.

"I was just making some tea. Do you want to stay there a little while longer, and I'll bring you a cup?"

She smiled through nervous tears. "Role reversal." She coloured again. "I'd better come down and have it, then. I—I'm sure I shall be all right."

Foyle was somewhat alarmed by her tears. In his opinion, she did not look quite so well as she had earlier, despite her high colour. Perhaps she had worn herself out looking after him, after all the strain of the day before; perhaps she was running a fever.

"Sure that isn't bothering you too much?" This time he did touch her forehead, and at that moment his own brow furrowed. _No fever, but there is so much pain in her eyes…_

"No, really, I'll be fine, but…" She fidgeted uncomfortably, and couldn't meet his eyes. "It's just that… I was _so_ worried about you, more than you could ever know."

He stared at her, moved by the quaver of emotion in her voice. He should expect that she'd worry about a colleague and friend, but to appear so deeply concerned as she did, to look and sound as if on the verge of tears at the idea of his having been injured…

Once again Foyle chastised himself for reading too much into these little moments between them. But there had been so very many of them; that was the thing. Moments when their eyes locked, and each seemed to read the other's thoughts. Moments when their shared laughter felt like a delicious secret. Moments when he could swear that his desire to kiss her was reflected in her eyes; her gaze would rest ever so briefly on his lips, then dart away… and yet again he'd wonder if he were imagining things.

But now that his concussion symptoms were gone and his peaceful hours with her had relaxed his tight rein on his inhibitions, he felt more articulate and organised in his thinking. Still standing near her, he gently asked his driver, "What made you so worried, Sam?"

She scanned his face for some clue to his thoughts. "I—um, I worried about you because I was afraid that awful blow on your head might change you somehow, or truly compromise you." She looked down, shy again. "In fact, when you were knocked out in the accident, my first thought was that you might be dead, and if that had happened…" she faltered, her voice choking with tears.

He was looking wide-eyed at her again, his mouth agape, and Sam's heart melted at how much it reminded her of his expression the first time they met, when she'd strode into his office and saluted him.

Foyle's mind could not yet accept the possible implications of her words, but like Pandora, he still had hope left. He couldn't let the chance pass him by. He calmed himself, trying to keep his expression open, and casually remarked, as he had earlier in the week in the car, "Sam, it'd be easy to find another job."

Samantha huffed, looking at him incredulously. "You think I'd be bereft if you died because I'd be _out of a job_?" She turned away from him and tried to pace in the tiny space between him and his bedside table. "I'd give any job in the world to be sure you were well and not in pain. I'd give…" She halted, her eyes burning into his, and then blurted out, "Sir, I would give _my life_…" her eyes widened as she realized what she'd said, and she wheeled about, her hand clapped over her mouth.

"You'd… ? Sam! Sam, look at me!"

She turned to him and held his eyes as she burst out, "I can't help it and I have to tell you. I've been in love with you for months. Almost from the start. I know you probably think I'm some silly young flibbertigibbet"—Sam tripped hopelessly over this word—"with… with a schoolgirl thing for a man she admires. That's _not_ what it is. I _do_ admire you. And I have a thing for you. But it is not silly. It is very real. And when I thought I might have lost you, I realised that I had to tell—"

Christopher pulled a stunned Sam into his arms and captured her mouth, in part to quiet her stream of confession, but in truth to taste at last the lips that had long haunted his dreams. But one kiss wasn't enough; one gave way to another and then another, until both of them were breathless. He was startled to realize that he did not feel the least unsteady on his feet; perhaps it was symbolic, he thought, that as long as he was holding onto her he would be strong and confident. His hand moved without conscious thought up Sam's back, to slip under her hair and clasp her neck as he moved his mouth hungrily over hers, and she clung back, wanting to feel what it was like to have her arms around his waist, his shoulders, his neck.

His softly curling hair she had longed to stroke was beneath her fingertips and she was so swept away by the sensations his kisses brought her that she wanted everything to just please slow down so that she could savour it.

At length Christopher reluctantly pulled back, holding her at arms' length, and her soft little hum of protest thrilled him. "Oh, Sam," he murmured, shaking his head, his eyes still closed.

She waited for him to open them so that they could both take a long, close look at each other without reservation. As they did so, each seemed to fill with greater happiness until it overflowed their eyes. Then his eyebrow made its familiar quirk and he spoke gently again.

"Are you sure, darling girl? You're so young, and I'm—"

"You're… what? Certainly not old. You're more experienced and mature, but… you are youthful to me."

Gratefully he bent to kiss her again, even more passionately than before, craving the warm sweetness of her, and she felt her knees go out on her so that she had to clutch him more tightly to keep standing. He carefully braced his lower body so that it was not pressed against hers. She was not the only one whose knees felt watery, but a glance down had reminded him that they stood only inches from his bed. No matter how tempting that was at this amazing moment, it was too soon.

Christopher raised his head slightly, keeping his lips nearly touching hers, and said softly, "Sam… if you only knew how much I've wanted to tell you the same thing… how much I…" His eyes were wet as he stroked back her hair.

She kissed him, moaning quietly, and he almost lost control of himself.

_She's in my arms—it's not just a dream, and she desires me, just as I've so long needed her. I can't believe this is happening… but I'd best get us out of this bedroom quickly. _He summoned the willpower to separate his lips from hers again, and shook his head with disbelief as he drank in her joyous eyes.

"Sam… dear... this isn't going to be easy for us." He thought of her father, and his son. How would they ever begin to explain to Reverend Stewart and Andrew?

She was smiling. "Nothing could make me prouder than saying I'm in love with you. I'm ready to shout it from the rooftops!"

He laughed at the image. Lifting her hand to kiss it, he then led her to the door. "Go on downstairs, Sam. I'll join you in just a few minutes."

She kissed his cheek, picked up her suitcase, and honoured his request.

In a daze he slowly took a seat on the bed where she had sat only minutes before. Christopher Foyle, age forty-eight and in love with a woman not even half that. He had thought it up and down, debated with himself whether it would be fair to her, wondered what on earth his son and his brother-in-law and his sergeant and his friends would think. Would they instantly imagine that he was an older man in authority, taking advantage of the young and impressionable woman in his employ? But that wasn't fair to Sam; she wasn't _that_ kind of impressionable. She was brilliant, sensible, optimistic, sweet. She was wonderful, and to imagine going anywhere without her plunged him into depression.

Holding her in his arms at last and feeling her yield to him, far from quelling his desire for her, had made it even stronger. But if he let her stay here now, now that they had known each other's lips and said these things, he would be tempting fate. He had no idea whether Sam understood what it meant for her to stay longer in his house, now that they had admitted their love to each other. Nor did he know if she had noticed, as he had, just how close they had been to his bed, how easy it would have been to...

Foyle pushed the thought from his mind. If only she would marry him (please God), she would be his in every sense and he would be hers… but not before.

Sam was just pouring their tea as he reached the foot of the stairs and entered the living room. Her coppery hair shone in the glow of the fire; she had turned off the other lights in the rooms. He considered whether to sit in his chair, rather than beside her on the settee, but she had placed a small folding table before the sofa. The tea tray and his cup were already there, hinting that he should join her. He gave her one of his small smiles as he sat beside her, and watched her prepare his cup.

_How very civilised we are, having our after-passion tea. What do I say to her, now? I can't have her thinking I don't want her, but it's a bit early to spring the marriage idea on her. Is that even what she wants? Sam's not the type to want only an affair… but how do I know that? It's not as if we ever talked about any of this. _

"Sam…"

She looked at him almost fearfully, worried that he might have had second thoughts, or decided he was far too old for her, and that for her own good he should not let this proceed.

The expression on her face wrung his heart. He quickly put down his cup and saucer and touched her cheek. "What's wrong, my sweet?"

She blushed and smiled that magnificent smile again. "You sounded as if you had news to break to me. I was afraid I wouldn't like it."

"What sort wouldn't you like?"

"Oh… for you to decide it couldn't work between us, because of the difference in our ages. Or…" _Or for you to make sure I understood that this likely wouldn't lead to marriage…_

His voice was so quiet that she barely heard him. "Or what?"

Sam shook her head. _I've admitted my feelings, but I'll not propose marriage to him._

His thumb still caressed her cheek, and the effect on her was causing the teacup to clatter in her saucer. She placed it on the table beside his, and he closed the space between them, gathering her into his arms and turning her chin to feel her lovely warm lips beneath his again.

But presently he drew away and then just hugged her tightly, murmuring her name and trying to gather his self-control again as he rocked her in his embrace, his hand stroking her hair in a way more comforting than sensual. At length he looked into her eyes. "It's because I love and respect you that I've got to send you home now. Do you understand?"

Sam searched his eyes with hers, and nodded. She understood completely and it touched her heart. He had beautifully communicated both how much he desired her and that he didn't feel it was the right time to act upon that desire. "I understand, Christopher."

She had never seen him smile as broadly as he did at the sound of his first name on her lips. She stroked his dear face, from temple to cheek, and saw so much love in his eyes that she knew they would be able to talk more about all of this, soon. Together they would decide the right time for everything that would happen from now on.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Foyle was having some porridge the next morning when Sam's knock sounded at the door. As he wasn't consciously remembering that he had asked her to dress differently, her appearance as she stood on his doorstep came as a pleasant surprise. He had stopped paying close attention to women's fashion when Rosalind died, so he didn't know that Sam's suit was a 1937 with the skirt hemmed; all he thought was that she looked professional and most fetching in the soft green-grey Shetland wool. Though she had not pinned her hair up into its usual regulation Victory roll, the front was neatly upswept, and she wore a little chocolate-coloured hat that matched her bag and shoes. Her gloves and the scarf softly tucked about her throat were a darker shade of the green. This outfit had been her parents' gift when she'd got her first job, and she had taken excellent care of it.

Many a morning she had brought the sun in with her even on grey days, smiling as she cheerily gave him his "'Morning, Sir!" This time was no exception (though it was a lovely enough morning in its own right), but there was an added warmth in her brown eyes that instantly increased his heart rate, and the familiar words were spoken with an ironical arch of her eyebrow.

"'Morning, Sam. C'mon in."

As soon as she'd let the door shut behind her, he had her in his arms. She closed her eyes tightly with joy as she hugged him close after the long kiss; she had purposely left off the lip rouge in hopes that just this sort of greeting would ensue. Christopher drew back and gave her yet another contented but _I-can't-quite-believe-it_ look, stroking her arm.

"You look… _beautiful._ There, I got it out this time!"

They laughed.

"Have you had breakfast?" he asked her as she followed him, somewhat dazed, back to the kitchen.

She nodded. "But I'd love a cup of tea with you."

"Mmm." He put the kettle on and they sat down across from each other.

"I'll want to look in at the station before we go, as Milner may have left some information for me. We'll probably still be in Pevensey midday."

"There's a castle ruin there, isn't there, Sir?" she asked him, then blushed. "Isn't there, _Christopher_?"

He was smiling at her. "There is, Miss Stewart, but alas it's a base for the Home Guard for the duration. But we can have a bite of lunch before we leave town, and stop somewhere along the way for a walk if this glorious weather holds."

Sam hoped he wouldn't tease her about her yawning (as he had on those mornings months ago, after her attempts to sleep in a cell at the police station), but she had definitely had trouble falling asleep after the excitement of the evening before. Over and again she'd thought about the sensations she experienced when he finally held and kissed her… it was so much more wonderful than her dreams of it had been. Alone and reliving it, she'd stretched voluptuously and arched her vibrant body, a tiny secret smile on her lips.

Never before had such strong sensations been stirred up in her; now that she had told Christopher, and at last learned that her feelings were reciprocated, it was going to be difficult for her to ignore. At the same time, he seemed to be welcoming her to participate more fully as a professional colleague.

_It's a separate thing from loving me or wanting me… Even if we weren't… romantically attached, he'd still believe it's a worthwhile thing to be my mentor._

For Sam it was a second great happiness to mix with the first.

During their drive he briefly reviewed the scant details of the case they would be interviewing about, but mainly they talked some more about music. She said she hoped he would play the piano more regularly, which made him smile a little sadly, as he had not told her how often Rosalind used to say the same thing. The beauty of the crisp February day reminded her of farm neighbours in Lyminster who'd begun to prepare for barley sowing and lambing around this time, and she told amusing stories about her less-than-effective attempts to help, which had finally led to her decision to join the MTC rather than the Women's Land Army, although the latter prospect had also rather intrigued her. Foyle found himself laughing and feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time.

Mrs Melcent was a surprisingly angular woman of about forty-five with a washed-out complexion and pale gold-brown eyes and hair. She was friendly and receptive in an anxious and fluttery sort of way, but it was obvious that she was very worried about "her Rhys."

"It's been a week now," she told them, once they all were seated in her front room and Sam and Christopher were holding the cups of tea she had pressed upon them. The concerned mother glanced at Samantha with a question in her eyes.

_Is this young woman really a detective, too, or just a secretary? Or his daughter? Name's different; maybe his married daughter? No, I don't think they're related. The way he looks at her—it's a different kind of fondness. The Detective Chief Superintendent introduced her as "his assistant," but she's dressed like a society lady out shopping._

Foyle caught the woman's eye and gave one of his kindly "Do let's keep on track" smiles. "What makes you think this time that he isn't off with the friends he's been travelling with?"

"Well, he may well be. In a way that's what makes me uneasy, you see. They're a dodgy lot; not at all sure they aren't spivs. Always giving their girls nylons, they are, and never short of cigarettes."

Foyle nodded and looked at Sam. She was studying Mrs Melcent's eyes. "Did Rhys have a girl?" she asked gently.

Mrs Melcent's expression stiffened. "He was going round with that _Bea,_" she said scornfully. "The one with the airs and the tight sweaters."

"But he isn't seeing her now?"

Mrs Melcent furrowed her brow. "He mentioned another girl… now I can't recall the name. That was just before he lost the job at Morehouse, maybe a fortnight ago. He was driving fish up north, then back to Hastings to do the same."

"How long had he been with… Bea?" Foyle asked, putting down his cup and saucer.

The woman gave it some thought. "Several months. Almost a year, I think. Bea… Stanley, I think it is."

"Know where she lives?"

"She's from Lunsford's Cross, I think… not far."

Foyle nodded, saying "Good" so quietly that it was almost inaudible. He stood, slowly crossing the living room as he continued his questions. "When you saw your son a week ago… what time of day? Was he with anyone when he left?"

"I remember it because he was dressed so smartly before he left here. His tie on, and that. It was Saturday last. No, he was alone."

"Can you tell me whether any of the others he knows live at any of his delivery stops up north?" Foyle asked her.

The woman's worn face creased in thought. "I don't remember. His boss might know. He met some of that lot driving the lorries."

"Yes, we thought we might have a word with him. Know the address?"

After taking down this information and asking Mrs Melcent a few more questions, Sam and Foyle tried to reassure her that they would pursue every lead.

She shook her head, seemingly pessimistic about her son's fate. "His father never came home from the last war, and he hasn't had much of a male influence in his life." She gave Foyle a respectful glance. "I think he missed that."

* * *

><p>The office of Morehouse Haulage was on the Western Road close to the fishing shacks of the bay, so the area around it was silent but for gulls' cries; the fishermen were out on the water for the day, or at least for half of it. After two knocks at the door failed to get a response, the pair turned to leave, but they heard the bolt shifted and so turned back to greet the lorry company owner.<p>

"Mr Morehouse? 'Morning. My name's Foyle; I'm a police officer. This is my assistant, Miss Stewart. Mind if we ask you a few questions about a young man who used to be in your employ?"

Morehouse shaded his eyes from the bright sun; the interior of his chilly stone-walled office was almost devoid of light. It crossed Foyle's mind that the man may have been sleeping rather than working. The DCS examined Morehouse's eyes. _Or drinking._

The large, portly man with disheveled white hair wordlessly ushered them in, snapping on an electric light as they peered into the gloom.

"Sorry. Late night of it last night, after a long trip. Was having a doze, I'll admit."

Sam watched as Mr Morehouse took swift visual inventory of the surface of his desk and closed the half-open drawer at top right. He gestured for them to have a seat in the wooden chairs facing it while he sat in the extremely worn leather chair behind it. "A question about one of my hauliers?"

Foyle flashed a tiny smile and said with his trademark elongation of the first word, "Yesss… Rhys Melcent. I understand he drove for you up until a fortnight ago?"

Morehouse nodded slowly. "Aye. Not a bad lad, but I had the feeling he was spending more time in Hastings than he needed to be. Isn't good for fish, even packed in ice, to wait for a driver overnight. The last straw for me was a load that had turned, and I lost several sales."

"Any idea why he was detained each time he was in Hastings?"

"One of the other lads did mention…" The older man glanced uncomfortably at Sam. "Er, that there may have been a lady there he was calling on."

"Did he mention her name?" Sam asked him.

Morehouse cast his eyes upward in thought. "Ah. I think so. Now, what _was_…?"

"Might it have been Bea, or Beatrix?" she prompted.

The big man made a face at his inability to remember. "All I can recall is that is began with 'D'. Dorothy? Darlene?"

Foyle turned his hat in his hands and stroked the brim. "Were you aware of any group of men he was running with?"

Sam noted a subtle shift in the man's expression, as if he knew but was not sure it was wise to reveal it to the law.

The detective chief superintendent's gaze fixed on him. The penetrating stare gradually unnerved him; still Morehouse said nothing.

Foyle stood and walked the length of the room. "Melcent's mother tells us that he was possibly involved with some racketeers. Know anything about that?"

The tired-looking Morehouse gave Sam a piteous look. She shot an uncertain glance at Foyle before venturing, "It's all right, Mr Morehouse. We won't tell them you told us anything."

The manager looked resigned, as if he considered he had no choice but to tell what little he knew.

"Well, then… yes, there was another driver here took up with that cheating bunch. It was small time, the stuff they were up to at first—just cigarettes and lighters and such, you know. Then I think one of them started stealing ration books.

"…I don't think this lad Rhys was in on that," he added quickly in response to Foyle's raised eyebrow. "That's when he began to say he didn't want anything more to do with it. But he would keep spending all that time in Hastings. I never understood what he was about."

"We need the names of the people he worked with; as many as you can provide. And to know which ones he was most friendly with, if you can recall."

* * *

><p>"Well done, Sam," Foyle said, smiling, as they walked back to the car after collecting further information from the bleary-eyed lorry owner.<p>

They had decided earlier, upon driving past the well-established old Smugglers Inn, to give it a try for lunch.

As they dined on fish and vegetable pie, Sam said wistfully, "We'll have to come back to the castle here sometime… after the war. I suppose it's rather fitting that there are soldiers there—the Norman ships invaded this very harbour—well anyway, it _was_ a harbour, before the sea retreated. There's also the story of Queen Joanna, who was imprisoned there wrongly…"

Christopher listened intently to her excited narrative, feeling the dichotomy he had noticed a few times before: she could sound like an enthusiastic youngster at the same time that she was showing remarkable maturity and depth of knowledge.

Stirring his tea some minutes later, he mused, "I think we'll want to run up Monday and see this Beatrix Stanley."

Sam nodded. "Doubtless she'll know more about Rhys than any of the men."

About half way back to Hastings Sam stopped off at a particularly scenic hilly stretch of the main road, so that they could go for a walk. She cheerily greeted the deceptively placid cows as they ambled to the edge of their fenced-off paddocks. The winter cold was bracing without being penetrating. Christopher reflected that it felt good to move around more energetically, now he was fully recovered.

_And it's wonderful holding her hand like this, and feeling almost like a young man again. Work complete, and time to relax. What might she wish to do this evening? Go out to see a film? Stay in and read, or just talk? Not so sure about staying in… what might happen if we do? We should take this slowly; I'd be wisest to encourage an evening out._

At one point they split up; she waited on a bench and watched him briskly climb a hill, his overcoat flapping slightly in the breeze. Her heart gave a small leap as she reminded herself that this quiet, considerate man, so attractive to her, was willing to be as close to her as they had been the night before. At the same time it made her nervous. At what pace would they take their courtship… at what pace did she wish them to? Quiet and considerate he may be, but she sensed his leashed passion and the thought of it made her shiver with delight. She was confused about her desires… a vicar's daughter, she chastised herself, shouldn't be so quick to think what she was thinking.

Christopher studied her as he returned, noticing her preoccupation. She was rubbing her arms for warmth and shivering slightly as he approached, and he took her arm and pulled her against his side as he had the day before. This did not remedy the shaking, so he hugged her, murmuring in her ear, "I think we ought to be heading back." He smiled at her. She noticed the touch of worry in his eyes as she absorbed the dear lines of his face.

_A good day's work done,_ each thought. _And so we'll return to Hastings. And what will happen then? _

They got in the Wolseley, quite secluded despite the bareness of the branches beneath which Sam had parked, and she hesitated before starting the car.

During these months of her driving for him, Christopher had sometimes unconsciously rested his hand on the corner of her seat back near her shoulder, or even along the top edge so that his fingers were near her neck, particularly if he needed to turn his head to speak with Milner or some other passenger in the back seat. If she leaned back when his hand was poised in either of those spots and inadvertently touched him, he'd feel his heart catch and then experience a small storm of confusion:

_Should I pull away? Would she be offended if I seemed to take exception to her contact with me? _

So at such moments he would pretend not to notice the one thing that was most preoccupying his mind: _I'm touching her._

Now as Samantha turned to him with a shy half-smile, he was fully aware of how easily he could reach up and stroke her cheek or ear. With the knuckles of his right hand he lightly brushed down the curve of her cheek and she closed her eyes at the same time that she caught her breath. Christopher's hand stole from her face to her neck beneath her hair, stroking the velvety down at her nape, not visible to him with her hair loose, but something that had often driven him quite mad when he caught a glimpse of it seeming to glow in the soft morning light.

Sam started trembling again at the knowledge that he was doing this as he sat beside her in the _car,_ this place where they had sat together for so many months in polite restraint, despite the desire each felt for the other. This not only made her feel a little light-headed, but also made her conscious of the intense warmth in the lower part of her body. She shifted uneasily.

"You all right?" he asked softly, his eyes looking almost sleepily into hers while that oh-so-mesmerising hand massaged the back of her neck. Sam tried not to moan as she bent her head back upon his fingers, but he was enchanted and acutely stimulated by her quickened breath and the overwhelmed expression on her face. In another instant he had pulled her over his lap and into his arms, taking care not to bump her knees into the steering wheel or her hip on the gear stick. He tilted his head to kiss her deeply as her arms wound round his shoulders.

At length he drew back to look at her and she slowly opened her eyes, only to immerse herself in his again. Today his eyes were reflecting the sky: more azure than grey.

"Sam…" he whispered. At that moment he wished to ask her to marry him as soon as possible, but he still feared that he would make her feel trapped or pressured in some way if he spoke of this too soon. Gentle God, how he longed for her…

_I can feel how much he wants me, and I want him, too. Would he think less of me if I asked him if I could stay with him some night soon? He is such a gentleman. I don't want him to think of me as fast. If only I could tell him that it's because I want to marry him that I'd be willing to give myself to him._

Sam, though inexperienced, had a certain practical knowledge of the facts of life. One of her more adventurous friends in the MTC, Yvette, had proudly recounted some of her exploits with men, seemingly entertained by Sam's wide eyes and blushing laughter in hearing of most of it for the first time. Storing up information for some later potential courtship, Sam had asked Yvette frank questions and followed up with some library reading and eventual questions for her Hastings doctor.

When getting ready for an evening out with Violet and Connie at Bexhill she had also picked up snippets of information about sex; she remembered that Violet had implied her relationship with Andrew was considerably more advanced than Sam's and Andrew's ever came to be. Sam wondered now if it was because she was not quite as delicate and flirtatious as Violet, but recently she had become more certain that it simply indicated how little excitement Andrew had stirred in her.

_But in retrospect I probably never gave him any sign that it was acceptable to be more forward._

To the man who was now holding her in his arms she felt inclined to send the message that he may be as bold as he desired, but she also still feared offending his sensibilities; she had witnessed his ability to understand and withhold judgment of people's sexual foibles, but she was uncertain of his personal code about such things.

He was still gazing into her eyes and fighting the urge to kiss her in a way that could make him quite lose his senses; exciting as it was to fulfill the fantasy of holding her here in the Wolseley, it was not proving as comfortable as he wanted them to be when they increased their intimacy. He bent and sweetly nuzzled her nose with his, and her heart leapt again at the warmth in his eyes. "Let's get back to Hastings."

After a period of quiet travel, during which Foyle and his driver attempted to collect their thoughts and examine the situation in a calmer light, they began to verbally map out their plans for work during the coming week. By the time Sam had drawn up near the door of 31 Steep Lane and stopped the car, the _work_ plan was in place, but each still wondered what their _personal_ plan would be.

After she had refolded the road map he remained in his seat, stroking her gloved hand with one finger.

_Why do I feel so awkward, just asking her if she'd like to come in and have some tea? It's been a while since I've courted anyone, but then I never was very smooth at any of this. Shy, unsure of how to proceed every other time; if Elizabeth or Caroline or Rosalind had been as shy, would I ever have had the nerve? _

"Y'know, Sam, you don't have to spend your entire Saturday with me, if you've other things you'd like to do."

She couldn't help but grin at him. It was clear to her that he was as eager to spend every moment of his weekend with her as she was to spend hers with him, and that this comment was not some attempt to extricate himself from her company. It was just his modesty keeping him from presuming that she felt the same. She felt another dizzying surge of affection for him and caught the fingers that caressed the top of her hand. "You're still stuck with me, _Sir,_ I'm afraid. I can see that you are all well, but it's obvious that you need someone to force you to practice your music and keep eating sensibly."

He laughed and got out of the car to open _her_ door for a change.

Another meal out was a bit of a luxury, but the occasion was special and he was trying to stave off the inevitable danger of their being alone together for long. They may have only shared a few relatively chaste kisses _so far,_ but he had sensed in Sam an unguarded quality that (especially given that it only added to her allure) might make his task of holding back that much more challenging. He wondered what, if any, kind of experience she had in affairs of the heart. Andrew had admitted that his relationship with Sam had never gone further than a few kisses, and it had taken most of Foyle's resources to conceal the great relief he had felt to hear it.

Samantha looked so beautiful, and so youthful, sitting across from him in the candlelight of the small restaurant, that he knew he should try to speak with her about some of these things.

Just as he opened his mouth to do so, however, she said, "I don't think I should abandon the uniform quite yet, S—Christopher. For one, I haven't the clothing rations to have many nice things right now, and for another I think people aren't sure what to make of me in my mufti when I'm accompanying you."

He nodded, mulling this over. "They did rather seem to have little cogs operating in their heads after I introduced you."

"Yes, in a way I think I'm more likely to uncover information just by being your driver, just incidentally _there,_ if you know what I mean."

He looked at her with undisguised admiration. "Very well, Miss Stewart. It's back to the MTC regulation attire on Monday."

After their meal he suggested a stroll to help their digestion, but the light wind of the afternoon had become sharper after dark and uncomfortable even for a couple walking close to each other. Like the night before, it was only half past eight when they reached the house, and he didn't want to say goodnight to her yet.

_Ridiculous. Go ahead and ask her in. There's more to your wanting Sam's company than that. You can control yourself._

They had tea before a comforting coal fire, sitting together on the settee and letting their eyes lose focus on the capering flames. Good food had relaxed Sam, and she stole a glance at Christopher's profile in the flickering golden light.

_He hasn't touched me since we came inside, but perhaps that's because he wants to talk about something. I think he's having trouble coming out with it… _

She cleared her throat and Christopher gave her a small sideways glance and sheepish smile. "This just goes to show," he told her, "how unused I am to spending any time with anyone. I forget how rude it is to just retreat into my thoughts."

Sam boldly reached up to stroke his hair. "I know I chatter a lot, but I don't mind just spending quiet time with you."

He looked into her eyes with a mixture of gratefulness and love… and something else.

_How can I broach all these things without sounding like a solicitor laying out a series of business arrangements? How can I think straight about it when her eyes are so wide and sweet and inviting?_

Sam took his tea from him and turned as she rejoined him so that she was half sitting, half lying in his lap as she had in the car. Christopher had just a hint of smile on his lips and his eyes were fond and amused, as if to say, _There's no use my resisting this, really, is there?_

She kissed him.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Crash

Author: dancesabove

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and I in no way profit from the story I've written.

Rating: T

Pairing: Samantha Stewart and Christopher Foyle

A/N: This A/U story of Sam and Mr Foyle is based on scenes from "The French Drop" and (soon) "Enemy Fire." I welcome your feedback.

* * *

><p>Chapter Five<p>

His eyes tight shut, Christopher moaned under his breath at the touch of Samantha's lips to his. Slowly but deliberately he increased the pressure of his response, his fingers combing through her silky hair. He heard and felt her gasp against his mouth as he ran his tongue along her lips to open them.

The half-surprised sound of pleasure she next made seemed to infuse his body with heat, and against his better judgment he further deepened the kiss. Sam had never been kissed so ardently and she realised that no other man had ever caused this lovely flush of warmth to every part of her body, making her throb with need. She could see now why it was easy to abandon restraint in this situation; though she had never had sex before, the urge to do whatever he might want to do was very strong indeed.

She tentatively wriggled against his lap, feeling both nervousness and satisfaction at how much their kiss had affected him; she trembled with excitement at his suppressed groan.

His hands moved from her hair to her shoulders to her waist; then he slipped one palm over the small of her back and pressed her toward him abruptly—almost violently, though she didn't object in the least. Sam felt her nipples harden and tingle as he crushed her to him, and as his mouth released hers and he began to caress the most sensitive part of her neck with his lips, she arched against him, whispering, "Oh, Christopher… O, God, that feels…"

The soft sounds of her passion and the press of her on his groin were making him nearly insane with need, but his love for her was greater, and he tried to remind himself that he did not want to push her too fast. Yet he _had_ to know the feeling of lying beside her, and of having her body beneath his, and this sofa was too small. He pushed her gently over so that they sat side by side, then retrieved a soft afghan from the arm of the chair and spread it on the floor before the hearth.

Unbidden, Sam moved from the settee to the blanket, and he smiled affectionately at her eagerness as he took his place beside her. He gently braced the back of her neck with his left hand and tipped her chin up slightly with his right. Holding her eyes with his, he slowly lowered her to the floor and leant over her, as with exquisite tenderness he stroked her cheek and chin. Her hand rested lightly on his wrist. Her senses were so overwhelmed that she almost was motivated to stop his hand from wandering up her temple and into her hair, as he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her thoroughly.

"Sam…"

She looked up to see his blue eyes lovingly scanning hers, and he murmured, "I need you so much…"

She quivered; her breathing sped up as he traced her eyebrows and the outline of her lips with one finger, before dropping his own to her neck where he nuzzled and kissed with more and more intensity until he suddenly became aware of the unconscious rock of her hips, instinctively seeking his.

Christopher could feel her pulse beneath his lips as he deeply inhaled the natural fragrance of her hair and skin. Slowly, his fingers trailed a path from her ear to her throat, stopping as he reached the collar of her blouse, close to the top of her breast.

He ever so lightly teased her lips with his until she was aching badly for him. Suddenly she longed to hear his voice again, and she whispered, "Christopher?"

Her own voice gave way in a restless pant as his fingers again caressed the curve of her neck, rested for a fraction of a second lightly around her throat, and trailed down to her collarbone again.

"Mmmm, what is it, sweetheart?" he asked softly, in such a deep tone that she felt a dangerous surge of pleasure—something almost like pain—just between her legs. The wetness there increased as he again covered her mouth, and she felt sinuous movements of his head as the kiss became more and more unrestrained. Sam gasped as Christopher moved over her and she could feel how aroused he was, pressed so close against her. He moaned breathlessly from deep in his throat; opening her lips with his, letting his tongue lightly move along her teeth until she too was moaning and thrashing.

Her arm clutched his shoulders while the other hand played with the hair near his ears, almost the same spot she had tenderly touched to check for injuries in the car two days before. His movement against her was in simulation of the way he would move over her if there were no clothing preventing him from slowly entering her and then withdrawing. This was so intense a sensation that Christopher finally realized he had to get command of himself before he let them reach a point of no return.

Stealing one more delicious kiss, he pulled away from her to gaze into eyes that were fogged with desire. It took every ounce of his willpower to prevent himself from claiming her enticing, slightly swollen mouth again. "Sam," he whispered, softly cradling her cheek and stroking it with his thumb, "we should talk about all this before we go any further."

It was gratifying to see the disappointment on her face as he struggled to exercise this self-control, but he knew it was crucial for him to prevent their passion from moving too quickly.

"T–talk?" she stuttered in such a charmingly dazed way that he smiled. Somehow her guileless manner helped him return to earth, but he didn't move from the floor or release his hold on her.

He nodded. "It was only twenty-four hours ago that I kissed you for the first time, but I'm already finding it extremely difficult to resist having you completely."

She smiled happily, caressing the gentle hand at her cheek. "If you knew how little I want you to resist, you'd think me a shameless woman."

Christopher's eyes widened, pleasantly surprised rather than taken aback by her cheery frankness. Sam giggled at his boyish expression.

"Dangerous woman, then," he teased her. Then his amused look grew serious. "But it's something I want only if…"

Samantha's eyes grew large as she contemplated what he might say.

Christopher sighed, then rose and helped Sam up. "Let's… um, let's have pudding and some more tea."

She offered to prepare it as he sat at the kitchen table, collecting his thoughts. The foremost one was that he'd treasure the chance to spend some time every day from now on just like this, at home doing everyday things together.

Sam sat down across from him.

_My poor darling. How worried she looks._

"First of all, I'm not going anywhere. This isn't a _fling,_ Sam. I love you."

Her face was suffused with joy at the words she would never tire of hearing, and he had to glance down to keep his concentration.

_He loves me. And I'm awake and we are talking; I keep reminding myself it isn't just a dream or a daydream._

"And secondly?"

He furrowed his brow in puzzlement. "What?"

"Well, you said, 'first of all'... "

"Erm... and secondly, you must not think that I don't… long for you. Because nothing could be further from the truth." His clear eyes bore into her more opaque ones, and she shivered.

Breaking their gaze she said, "I understand that it can't be quite yet. But I do want you, too. Even without knowing much _about_ all that..." Sam blushed and trailed off.

_Great heavens, she __**is**__ a virgin!_

Christopher felt an odd mixture of relief and trepidation upon learning that. _Why relief,_ he chastised himself, _when you don't subscribe to any antiquated double standard?_ Perhaps because he cherished helping her discover her abilities in other ways and thought it would be thrilling to do that in so intimate a way.

He took a few bolstering sips of strong tea.

"My dear girl," he breathed, quelling the urge to go round the table to take her in his arms again, "all I can say is that I want both of us to be sure—to be _promised_—" He broke off, mesmerised by her trusting, melting look.

"Christopher." She smiled, her decision made to help him out of his dilemma by taking action.

"Y–yes?"

"Will it be all right for me to drive the car home again this evening, instead of collecting my bike?"

There was something both comfortable and admirable about her practicality, and he realised suddenly that it was altogether possible that Sam was already as interested in the idea of marriage as he, and as worried about "frightening him off" as he was of perturbing her.

He blinked. "Of course. But will I see you tomorrow?"

"I would love to see you. But I must spend part of the day taking care of boring domestic chores… well, you know, all that sort of thing."

He smiled, saying again, softly, "Of course. Evening, then."

"Why don't you come to my house?" she asked. "I have the run of the kitchen, and a landlady who'll be charmed by you." She grinned. "I'll make you coq au vin again!"

* * *

><p>Sergeant Paul Milner was so calm and straight-faced as a rule that it was not always clear to the casual observer how much he perceived. It had been plain to him from the first time he saw DCS Foyle and Samantha Stewart together, talking in front of the hospital as Milner departed using his crutches. The chief had been earnestly telling the young woman something, his shoulder close to hers, she listening intently, and Paul could see instantly the special bond between them. Since then he often had noticed their electricity-charged glances at each other. Their mutual respect and affection developed rapidly, despite Foyle's exasperation with her initial curiosity and zeal, and despite Sam's frustration at not being invited at first to participate more fully. But even before they were themselves aware of it, Milner knew there was something far stronger than affection and respect at play.<p>

When Mr Foyle and Sam arrived at the station Monday he could feel a difference in their manner towards each other, even as they conducted themselves as professionally and properly as ever. Nonjudgmentally he wondered what their time together Friday and Saturday had brought about. He knew Foyle well enough to be sure that, had he partially succumbed to his desire for the young woman, it would be continued only under honorable circumstances.

"Sergeant, if you can spare any time on this Melcent case, we really could use your help."

_We,_ thought Paul, amused but careful not to raise his eyebrows.

Between them Foyle and Sam brought Milner up to speed on what they knew so far.

"I think you're right; first thing to do is go talk to the young woman Rhys Melcent used to see," Milner suggested. "She could have a sense of what he's been doing, even if they aren't stepping out anymore. It could be that she even had some involvement in the racketeering."

Foyle nodded. "And next on our list is this Philip Garson, who used to drive for the same lorry company. He may have left before this black market activity started, if indeed it did, but he may have more names than Morehouse provided. Have time to go up and see him?"

* * *

><p>When Beatrix Stanley opened the door of her flat, Sam thought for a split second that she was looking at American film star Joan Bennett. Bea's black curls were lacquered in place and her pouty complexion was flawless, but she overdid the scarlet lipstick something fierce and wore false eyelashes, feathery black awnings for her green eyes. Although the young woman wore a dark red blouse not as form-fitting as the sweaters Mrs Melcent had scorned, a shapely bust was nevertheless in evidence. Bea's expression was desultory, as if her first glimpse had told her this man and woman were not worth her time.<p>

Foyle removed his hat. "Miss Stanley? I'm Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle of the Hastings police. My driver, Miss Stewart. May we have a word?"

The young woman managed a swift glance at Sam—up, down, dismissed—then (at a decidedly more relaxed pace) sized up the trim, distinguished gentleman beside her.

A near-smile crept onto her bright red lips as she apparently liked what she saw.

"Coo..." Bea arched her carefully plucked eyebrows. "What can I help _you_ with?"

Purposely ignoring the fact that this young flirt was making eyes at him, Foyle courteously ushered Sam in ahead of him as the slightly wary young woman opened wider the door of her flat.

"We're trying to find a young man who is missing. I understand you know him?" Christopher said in the questioning inflection that often led people to answer his statements.

Bea's raised her eyebrows again as she placed her hands on her hips, thereby pulling the red material of her blouse more snugly over her bust. Sam tried hard not to look amused.

_Sorry, girlie; he's mine._

"Name is Rhys Melcent," Foyle added.

"Rhys is missing?" asked Bea. Both the detective and his assistant noticed how quickly this question came upon Bea's hearing the name.

"For more than a week now," Foyle answered. "His mother last saw him Saturday night. The two of you were stepping out together, were you not?"

Bea cocked her head, giving Foyle her best coy upward-sideways gaze complete with bat of luxuriant lashes.

"Used to. Not anymore, though. We both moved on, you might say." Suddenly her polished fingernails were in need of her intense scrutiny. Foyle and Sam exchanged a look.

"When did you see him last?" asked the DCS, more steely authority tinging his voice.

The coquette tried once more to summon back the kind policeman she had mistakenly presumed was an attracted one. "Don't even remember," she told him perkily (not since first looking at Sam had she so much as acknowledged her presence.) "Could have been a month ago." Another cunning glance into Foyle's eyes. "Could have been two." Bea shrugged elaborately.

Sam spoke, her voice far gentler than she was feeling toward this tarty young woman. "When you parted, was it a mutual agreement? Or did one break it off with the other?"

Bea fixed the young lady in uniform with a scornful glare.

"I daresay 'mutual' is the perfect word for it." She repeated her earlier phrase. "We both moved on."

Foyle inwardly sighed as he turned to look around Bea Stanley's clean, but gaudy, digs.

_This is getting us nowhere, and this tiresome girl is making herself more and more ridiculous._

He turned back to see two young women looking questioningly at him: one, far too gilded a lily and plainly befuddled at her lack of persuasive power over him; the true beauty barely able to suppress her twinkle of amusement at his slight predicament. He gave Samantha a look that combined the merest hint of a snarl with a reflection of her mischievous eyes. Drily he lifted one eyebrow.

_I'll attend to __**you**__ later._

Sam had to hide her laughter behind a cough.

"Are there others he worked with or knew that you could tell us about?"

Bea pretended to think. "Not really. It was usually just the two of us when we was together." She smirked.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile Sergeant Milner was facing challenges of his own in trying to get some information out of Philip Garson. The young man was barely civil, obviously having had his brushes with the law before, and the detective's usual patience was wearing very thin.<p>

"But if Rhys Melcent was involved in these activities, as you say—"

"I don't know how involved he was—_I_ wasn't, by the time he started driving!" Garson was very young, yet had a lean, pinched face and gangly physique. His black hair and dark eyes hinted of Iberian-Irish ancestry and his temper lived up to the alleged reputation of both cultures.

"Some of the blokes may've tried to make a bit of coin on the side, but it wasn't anything great!" he shouted at the policeman in a harsh defensive tone. "You can't blame them for trying to brighten their lives down here. Nothin' to do but hang about having all look at you as if you was a criminal for not bein' in uniform." Garson looked about his bleak kitchen, where he and Milner were conducting this interview, and scowled.

Milner's eyebrows knitted in annoyance, and his soft voice took on an edge. "If you know the names of _any_ Morehouse employees running rackets, I want them, and I want them right now!"

After Garson grumbled out a few names, Milner sat on a large flat window well and said, more gently, "What kept you from being able to join up?"

The young man looked sharply at the sergeant and his lip imperceptibly trembled. After a pause, he said quietly, "Bloody flat feet. _I_ can run—I can run just fine. But they said no. Told me I could drive military lorries, but I don't start until next month."

"Melcent is about 19, isn't he? Was he called up?"

"'Have to be 20. But he'd just started talking about it, the last week or so I drank with him. He changed completely—at first sounded as if he'd do anything to avoid being called up, then started talking about _joining_ up…"

Sergeant Milner's forehead creased. "Can you think of anything else that changed?"

Garson was silent for a long minute. "Well…"

* * *

><p>"Then he started to tell me how Rhys Melcent had made a whole series of changes, just around the time he stopped stepping out with Beatrix Stanley," Milner told DCS Foyle and Samantha later on in Foyle's office. "Told the other lads he wanted nothing to do with the racketeering—though I still have the feeling he did have something to do with it, before that resolution. Started to dress more neatly, and even spoke of enlisting once he was old enough. Strange, though…" Paul looked contemplative.<p>

Foyle and Sam waited, curious as to what he had observed.

"I felt as if Garson knew something about Melcent's reasons for throwing over Miss Stanley… but he wouldn't say what they were."

Sam looked thoughtful. "Do you suppose Mr Melcent began to see someone else in Hastings?"

Foyle tilted his head. "Go on."

"Well, he regularly drove there, but then he was in trouble for staying too long with his cargo and letting it spoil. He begins to dress nicely, keep on the straight and narrow, and breaks it off with Bea. I think there must have been another girl."

* * *

><p>That night Samantha Stewart lay awake, thinking about Sunday evening's dinner. Sam's somewhat Bohemian landlady, Miss Merivale, had been present, making it easier for Sam and Christopher to keep their minds on their dinner and conversation. Foyle very much took to the petite and loquacious Merivale (as Sam and everyone else always referred to her), with her silvery hair in a ballerina's bun and her usual flowing garments making her look like a feminine figure on an Etruscan urn.<p>

Merivale in turn had found Mr Foyle's presence most enlightening. Samantha had spoken of him with misty eyes a few times, but now that Meri could experience them together, it was abundantly clear that her lodger's fondness for her boss was reciprocated. Like Milner, Merivale wondered how advanced the relationship had become. The two were not publicly demonstrative—Merivale never even saw them touch—and yet their eyes and their fond needling of each other quickly gave them away.

In one sense Sam was still getting used to the fact that she and Mr Foyle were a couple, but in other ways their interactions felt familiar and comfortable. She turned onto her side and hugged her pillow tightly, chuckling as she remembered the way he had pretended to glare at her at Bea's earlier. He never had followed up on the mock threat communicated by his eyes, but it was typical of one of the teasing moments between them. More importantly, though, she admired everything he stood for. He was honest and yet could understand why people sometimes lied; he was steadfast in pursuing the truth; he was so empathetic.

_That time he knew I was distraught over the little boy Joe, killed by the grenade in the summerhouse. He didn't watch me cry; just said to me in that soft, kind voice, 'In you go, back to the car.' I could tell he was shattered by it, too—the way his voice broke and the terrible mixture of sadness and anger in his eyes. And later on he was so sweet to tell me I could just head off home in the middle of the day. But more than anything I just wanted to stay by his side. Drove him to the supposed munitions factory… the one we later found to be a coffin factory… _Sam shuddered._ But something about discovering that place with him made me feel closer to him, too._

At the end of Sunday evening Merivale had discreetly given them some time to themselves in the front hall, where they had clung for some time before he was able to say goodnight. Each knew tomorrow wasn't far away, but there would be a challenge in deciding how to separate their work together from their other time together. There was also the question of how open to be about things, at least with Milner and perhaps with Mr Reid and Mr Rivers.

There hadn't been much time today to talk about that, but she was sure they would as they travelled about in the coming week. It had been a bit tense for both of them, saying goodnight tonight without privacy. And she worried that he would be hurt by her decision to be on her own that evening; she didn't know that he had the same unspoken fear.

Sam stretched out on her back and dreamed, as she so often had, of what it would be like when they didn't have to bid each other goodnight.

_How do you know that's a "when," and not an "if," Stewart? All right, then: If. _

Of course her thoughts flowed toward the physical love they would be free to share when—if—they were married someday—and Saturday night's passionate necking had given her some sense of how thrilling that would be.

_But how lovely it will be just to lie there afterward… watch him sleep. Watch him shave in the morning and put on the shirt! I've seen him put on his waistcoat, but…_

Sam laughed at herself.

She wanted to lie on the settee with a book and listen to him play the piano again, and to learn more dishes to cook for them and maybe even to try going fishing with him.

As Sam drifted to sleep with her love on her mind, he was gazing into the fire, thinking about her. He tried not to worry about growing too old for her too fast, but it sometimes tormented him anyway. And how interesting it was going to be to tell this to Andrew…

_He won't believe it at first, but then he'll understand. On some level I think he already knows… possibly everyone around us does…_

Foyle smiled. _Certainly Milner. I'll ask him if he'd like a drink tomorrow just after work. And I'll tell Hugh soon, too. They'll probably shrug and say, "That's news?"_

TBC…


	6. Chapter 6

The Crash

Dear patient readers, thanks for waiting! Might have taken even longer if it hadn't been for my co-writer jewell and as-always wonderful beta work from hazeleyes.

Rating: K+

Chapter Six

Christopher Foyle thought carefully about just when to have a private word with Milner and with Hugh Reid. Sergeant Milner seemed the logical one to speak with first about where things stood between Sam and himself; often he spent the entire day with them on investigations.

_Besides, he is less likely than Hugh to tease me about all this._

It was Tuesday before there was an opportunity to talk to Paul Milner, but he cheerfully accepted Foyle's invitation for a drink just after work.

Seated at The Swan, the younger man looked at Foyle expectantly. The DCS cleared his throat.

"Thank you for joining me. I just wanted to let you know, um…"

Foyle's eyes fell to the silver fork he was absently straightening, and Paul carefully hid his amusement. During the walk to the pub to meet Mr Foyle he had speculated that this talk would have something to do with Samantha Stewart. He had noticed since the weekend an even more lingering quality to the looks the two gave each other—and the way they both tried to avoid looking at each other in the first place.

To Milner's mind they were a good pairing despite the gap in their ages; Sam's innate maturity brought her closer to him in personality even as her ebullience balanced his reserve.

_She seems to enjoy learning how to investigate from Mr Foyle—and from me. I don't think she feels condescended to. I've never seen any woman handle strife as well as she; she even manages to remain in good spirits most of the time. She's delightful. He is a very lucky man…_

Paul realized he was staring off into the flames of the fireplace as his boss struggled to find the proper words. He listened more attentively.

"More than anyone else you know how much Sam and I work together, and you know I am very...fond of her." Foyle shifted in his chair and stroked the fork tines.

"And she is very fond of you, sir."

Christopher fought down a smile, but he still felt acutely uncomfortable. _Well, __**fond **__is __one __thing__…_

"I think so. And, well, the thing is, Sergeant. The two of us are, uh…"

Milner said nothing. _I __really __ought __to __help __him __out, __but __watching __him __try __to __tell __me __this __is __such __a __lark__…_

Foyle took a deep breath. "I never thought I'd be this fortunate, but she has agreed to allow me to court her."

Suppressing another smile at the formality of his boss' phrasing, Milner nodded with solemn understanding. At Foyle's next words, however, he felt his heart go out to the man, and decided to relent.

"I know how foolish it must seem… she's the same age as Andrew, for heaven's sake…" The clear eyes shut tightly in a look of some strain.

"No, no…" Paul jumped in, his expression giving way to the warm understanding he was sincerely feeling. "Mr Foyle…" He halted, noting a look of hopeful curiosity in the older man's reopened eyes. "Do you think age matters, really, when you honestly care for someone? And... and I've known since the first time I saw and heard the two of you together that you were well-suited."

The obvious relief that flooded Foyle's countenance made him look younger at once.

"I just want to assure you that we won't allow our courtship to interfere with our work, and…" Part of Foyle longed to tell Milner that he hoped to marry the girl. _Nope. __When __the __time __is __right, __tell __**her **__that __first, __Christopher._

But Paul knew that, too. He knew perfectly well that a year hence Samantha would be Mrs Foyle.

* * *

><p>It was Wednesday that Rhys Melcent's body was found at the foot of the cliffs about half a mile from Hastings. Foyle was glad Sam wasn't with him when he went to view the body. The young man who washed up on the shore was unrecogni<em>s<em>able after so many days, but a ring that he wore might be helpful in providing some clue, Foyle thought, and when he and Milner visited Mrs Melcent to ask if she recognised it, she broke down in a flood of tears.

The coroner informed them that Melcent had been stabbed several times before he was pitched over onto the rocks, so the need was urgent to step up the questioning of everyone the young man knew. One man Milner had interviewed kept re-entering the sergeant's mind, as he had seemed particularly careful not to say anything negative about his former co-worker Rhys Melcent—rather too careful.

Sam reminded them of what Mrs Melcent had mentioned, and Mr Morehouse expanded upon: that Rhys had a new young lady in Hastings. The only problem was that no one knew her surname; just that her Christian name began with D.

Extensive questioning of two other Morehouse lorry drivers had yesterday brought Foyle the answer. Ronald Severn had remembered Rhys rhapsodising about "some girl named Daphne," and he thought her last name might be Harris.

She had been next on the list to question, but now Foyle would have to give her some very bad news.

"I should see her tomorrow," he said solemnly, standing behind Samantha to hug her back tightly to his chest as she finished washing up after their dinner together at 31 Steep Lane. "Might help if you're there, if you're up to it." He softly kissed her ear.

Sam nodded. "Of course I'll be there. Poor Daphne," she mused, turning to face Christopher and stroking his cheek. "It sounds from what Severn said as if he must have cared for her very much, and she him."

Christopher examined the depths of Sam's dark brown eyes, struck through with some of the warm gold of her hair. She would lose him first, he thought abstractedly. _In __about __25 __years, __most __probably__… __30 __or __35, __God __willing __(as __long __as __my __mind __and __health __stay __intact). __She__'__ll __be __in __her __fifties. __She__'__ll __still __be __beautiful__… __she __could __marry __again__…_

She gave him a sidelong glance very like one he remembered from some exchange they had once had, in which he had teasingly said something that made her dubious. He smiled at the recollection, but she challenged, "What were you thinking, just then?"

"Hmm. About getting stuck with an old woman like you. I mean, will you be able to keep up with me, do y'think?"

* * *

><p>"Yes?" The contrast between this sweetheart of Rhys', when compared with Bea, was stunning. Though equally lovely, Daphne was demure and unflashy, with fair hair neatly parted and soft hazel eyes.<p>

She looked at Foyle with dread, as if the concerned expression on his face was all the confirmation she needed that Rhys was not merely missing. Her face crumpled before he had said a word, and Sam darted a surprised, worried glance at her boss before taking the sobbing girl into her arms.

"I'm... sorry," Daphne managed between hiccups when she at last was able to stop crying.

Foyle very slightly shook his head once, and Sam thought yet again how much she loved the gentle look of pathos in his eyes as he lightly touched Daphne's shoulder.

"You've nothing to apologize for—and I'm terribly sorry to be the bearer of this news. Do you think you're up to our asking you a few questions?"

Daphne gave Sam a brief, grateful nod when she offered to go and make some tea; then slowly sat down. Any other policeman might have been more than she could endure today, but sooner or later she had to know what had happened, and this man seemed so caring that he was probably the best person to learn it from.

"Where?" she asked simply, a tear trickling down her cheek.

He took a deep breath, but did not avoid her gaze.

"He washed ashore not far from Bexhill, but he was already dead before he went in to the water. Do you know of anyone who might have wished to harm him?"

Daphne gave it serious thought for a long moment.

"Well, I do know there was a girl he was walking out with before, who… I think Rhys said she took up with another man who was dealing in the black market. Do you think he might have done it?"

Sam returned with a tray of tea things and poured some for Daphne. Foyle's brief shake of the head told her that he didn't want any at present.

"How long had it been since you'd seen Rhys?" Sam gently inquired.

"He came to visit me about a fortnight ago," Daphne said numbly. "You know he really never wanted to get involved with that lot, Mr Foyle. He was a good man at heart… but he did fall for that girl, and she was most impressed by the racketeers that were doing the most dangerous smuggling and selling. The very first time we met he was beginning to worry about being in too deep."

"How did you happen to meet him?" asked Sam.

"He came into the pub where my dad works. He told me he was coming here to collect catch, driving it north. He lost his job about three weeks ago, for waiting too long here with a load of fish." She almost gave a watery smile at the thought of the unfortunate indiscretion.

"He was thinking of joining up when he turned twenty…" she dissolved again and Sam looked at her with an expression of sympathy.

Her boss silently indicated that they should wait until later to ask Daphne any more questions.

* * *

><p>Sam lounged on the sofa in Merivale's front room, watching Meri look pleasantly impressed as she leaned forward to listen to Christopher play a sonata on her baby grand piano.<p>

"Sam was right; you are quite a superb player, Mr Foyle."

He blushed, which made Sam smile broadly. As he finished he shook his head sceptically at the women's applause, saying, "Thank you but you two will never get hired as music critics. Mr Lignitz would be in shock at such a performance."

He continued, "Merivale. This is a beautiful piano. Do you play?"

"Not as wonderfully as you do. When I was young, all of the girls had to play piano—I play notes, but with little talent."

Foyle raised one eyebrow at this statement. "The piano…?"

"My late husband's. I couldn't bear to part with it and I'm glad to have it played with skill once again."

The three of them conversed for a while about music, literature—by mutual unspoken agreement, anything except the war—until Merivale excused herself for the night.

As soon as Meri had disappeared upstairs, Sam nuzzled her "young man" until she received a kiss.

"You were wonderful today, comforting Daphne," he told her with gratitude.

"How brave she was," Sam sighed.

_I've got to think some more about where to go next with this investigation, but there is so much happening this weekend…_

"Sam. I've an opportunity this weekend to… well, how would you like to go to a dance?"

Her eyes lit up instantly. "Certainly, s—Christopher!"

"I have a friend in Cambridge with a very nice house, and they are having a party." He leaned in toward her and said sotto voce in a mock conspiratorial manner, "He says there will be dancing. He's a writer—I don't know if you've ever read _Kind __Words_ or _Solitude_…"

"You mean Arthur Whitehall! Yes, yes… I liked _Kind __Words_ very much. You mean I can meet him?" Her eyes were alight, and as was so often the case when she was sunlight personified, he couldn't help smiling back.

"Of course, I shall hardly know anyone else there, and I'm not sure yet where we shall stay, but I thought we'd drive up on Saturday. I need to be home Friday, you see; Andrew's coming by. It's…" he paused, his eyes cast down.

"What is it, darling?" she whispered.

"Well, it's the anniversary of Rosalind's death. Andrew and I usually meet at the churchyard in the morning, and dine together in the evening."

"Of course. It's important. I'll drive you there, and wait for you both."

* * *

><p>Foyle stood looking at the tombstone near the back of the church, the grave he had so often stood beside with the same sharp pang of sorrow undiminished over the years. But today felt different. His new problem was that he felt a bit guilty to find it less painful. He still felt sadness, but his new-found hope had tempered the strength of it.<p>

ROSALIND FOYLE

June 1902–February 1932

R.I.P.

"Thanks for waiting," he told Sam as she rose from the bench near the corner of the building.

"That's all right…" They began to walk toward the car.

"When did she die?" Sam asked him.

"Nine years ago… today."

"That's a very long time."

He suppressed a smile. _It __would __be, __to __you. __You __were __only __14._

"Well… not very." He suddenly turned and looked back. "I'm just going to hang on a second or two longer." _Where __**is **__Andrew?_

"What was she like? You never talk about her; do you mind me asking?"

He glanced at her affectionately. "No, no, no… of course not. Well, she was, um… she was highly thought of and, uh, much loved, and, uh, you'd have liked her."

Sam looked pleased to learn this, though at the same time the look in her eyes communicated her sadness for his having lost her. It was obvious from the way he looked as he spoke of Rosalind that he had loved her deeply.

"You must miss her terribly."

His answer was typically reserved; a flash of sad smile, downcast eyes, and just before he quickly turned to look toward the other entrance again, a very quiet, "Yeah."

He took a few steps back, looked at his watch, and turned decisively.

"No, eh… we should go."

* * *

><p>It was so hard to read Andrew at times; Foyle knew he was under a great deal of strain, flying missions as often as he had to. He finally wandered in that evening in a tense, sad sort of mood, and was mortified to realise that he had forgotten about the cemetery and dinner. "I was out drinking," he said baldly, once his father managed to convince him that he wasn't too perturbed as a result.<p>

Andrew described how angry he had become at the aircraftsman of the maintenance crew, and about Wing Commander Turner's subsequent order that he take off for the weekend. "Wingco thinks I've got battle fatigue. 'Don't come back until Monday,' he said."

"Well, I'm sure he's a good judge of whether you need the rest." He looked at his son's pensive face; it was more haggard than he'd ever seen it. "You should get to bed, son. Something I want to talk with you about tomorrow, once you've had some sleep."

"Dad, I'm so sorry. I've let you down. I seem to be letting everyone down at the moment…"

"No, you've not let me down. That's not what I wanted to say to you… really, it was easier this time, somehow."

Andrew looked at him in surprise. Even such a veiled confidence was well outside the norm, coming from Dad. He waited, peering at the older man's face, at his downcast eyes in the flickering firelight.

"Why, do you think?" he asked, and met with the more usual spell of silence, he prodded, "Dad?"

Foyle glanced at him, and was unable to prevent the fleeting emergence of a tiny, uncomfortable smile. Andrew turned his head slightly to look at him out of the sides of his eyes, his brow bent in a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

His father cleared his throat. "Well, I'm… I mean, I need to tell you about this sooner or later, and, um…"

"You're seeing someone! You're finally stepping out with someone, is that it?" Suddenly Andrew was excited, though in a guarded way.

Foyle opened his mouth to speak, but Andrew went on, "But who do you ever have a chance to meet around here?" He looked thoughtful, then his handsome face scrunched amiably as he joshed, "Have you fallen in love with that pretty driver of yours?"

His father looked at him soberly and cocked his left eyebrow. "Yes."

Andrew's expression changed so rapidly that his father had to hide another smile.

"You mean… you have a crush on… Sam?"

Christopher leaned forward, running one finger along the rim of his whisky glass. He hesitated, wondering for Sam's sake just how to put this so that it would not sound too absurd, or reveal too much. He had not proposed to her yet, though it was something he was on the verge of doing every day. But he wanted his son to be clear that the relationship was an honourable one.

He sighed. "You were right the first time, Andrew. It's a bit more than a 'crush'. It's… rather serious." He gave the young man a dry glance. "And this will astound you, but she feels the same way."

Andrew looked utterly astonished, but his expression was becoming more thoughtful. "It's—it's rather an age difference, Dad."

Foyle nodded, eyes closed. "Is it? Hadn't noticed." Amusement was tugging at his lips again. This was something of a turnabout from his earlier conversation with Milner, he thought.

"Well, how…?" Andrew realised the question was personal, and let it drop.

"I would never have told her how I feel—have felt—unless she had told me, and that knock I took on the head in the car made her determined to let me know. If I did what's best for her I'd suggest she marry _you_ instead, but this time I can't seem—"

"_Instead?_ You've asked her to marry you?"

"Well, er, not in so many words, but…"

"Dad!" All of Andrew's depression seemed for the moment to have faded away. He jumped from his chair and grabbed his father's hand. Christopher blushed as his son shook it in vigorous congratulations, his face wreathed in smiles.

* * *

><p>They walked together to the floor, and she faced him. Both hesitated, then Foyle laughed gently and his arm eased around Sam's waist before he moved his hand up to her shoulder blade. He took her hand with his other hand, and in a polite, somewhat distanced pose, they began moving their feet.<p>

He'd seen this black dress with the draped shawl collar once before, but she'd subtly changed it to make it look slightly more formal, fastening the top of the two collar sides with a silver and emerald clip. It clung alluringly to her figure, and he softly sighed.

"Hmm. If you only knew how I wanted to ask you to dance, the time we went to the little French restaurant that had the band. I was afraid you would think me a randy old goat who just wanted to get his hands on you."

Sam laughed. "Well… I hardly think you're an _old_ _goat._"

He laughed too, and drew her closer.

There was very little effort required in dancing with him; his lead was firm but gentle and his sense of timing perfect—not surprising in such a good musician. Sam took a deep breath and nestled her cheek next to his.

_Sir,_ she almost said, and chuckled at herself. He drew back to look at her in surprise, and she shook her head with a slight blush.

"I was just wondering if I'll find myself calling you 'sir' even—"

She halted just in time. She'd been about to say, "calling you 'sir' even while we're in bed together." _How __comfortable __I __must __feel __to __be __on __the __verge __of __saying __such __a __thing._

He regarded her with a fond twinkle, and she suddenly was certain that he knew what she'd been thinking.

He embraced her again, and murmured in her ear, "Do you know you are the most beautiful woman here?"

"Mmm. When you say things like that it makes me wish I were the _only_ woman here. And that you were the only man."

"We don't have to stay late to the party," he found himself saying; then wondered what she'd think he meant, given what it was in response to.

Sam felt her stomach flip excitedly. _Does __he __mean __we __can __be __together __alone __tonight?_

She was so willing, and still so afraid to make that clear. Wondering if she could find some answer in his eyes, she looked into them again, whereupon he experienced something akin to the same nervous thrill _she _had felt.

"I mean…" Christopher ducked his head. "We could go back and have a nightcap before, er, sleep."

Sam suppressed a smile at how gentlemanly he was. _If __only __I __could __read __his __mind __as __easily __as __he __reads __mine!_

As the first tune ended Foyle wanted nothing more than to keep beautiful Samantha in his arms for the next. But just then a slender young man with blond hair tapped lightly on Foyle's shoulder.

"May I?" the young man asked Sam.

Before he released her right hand Foyle looked for and received Sam's glance of acceptance. She gave a little shrug of apology.

Reluctantly, but mindful of the social convention that made dancing exclusively with a beautiful woman at such a party churlish, Foyle made his way to the side of the room. His eyes did not leave Sam until a man spoke at his elbow.

"She is lovely, Christopher." Foyle turned then to realise that it was their host, Arthur Whitehall.

"Yes, and you and I aren't the only ones to notice," he replied with a wry nod towards the dancing pair.

"Ah, the perils of being in love with a beautiful woman."

Foyle shot Whitehall a piercing glare that instantly became softer when he saw the knowing sympathy reflected in his friend's face.

"Yes, Arthur. It _is_ perilous."

While he was talking with Arthur, Foyle had kept his eye on Sam and her youthful dance partner. They had exchanged a few words of conversation when suddenly Sam's head shot back in offence or surprise, and a high colour crept up her neck to her face. Foyle started towards her but was stopped with her head-shake and amused smile. She spoke a word or two in reply to the young man and soon, thankfully, the song was at an end. Sam thanked the blond, then made her way to Christopher.

His eyebrow was raised in question, but Sam merely gave him a look that said, "Later."

"Mr Whitehall, I don't know when I've been to such a lovely party."

"Yes, Miss Stewart, I thought we needed a bit of a diversion to get through it all."

The three of them chatted amiably for a few minutes until Whitehall excused himself to circulate among the other guests.

"How is it that you know him, sir?" Sam asked after their host stepped away.

"_Sam__…_"

The gently chiding but amused tone had her swiftly correcting herself.

"Christopher, I mean Christopher."

"I've know Arthur since we were tykes. We were taught together until he went away to school. We've stayed friends, through it all. But that's not at all what I want to talk about. What was that about with young Blondie?"

"Oh, that." Sam blushed again, reluctant to go on. "Well, Craig said that it was admirable that I…" At this point Sam faltered.

"Craig, is it? And what was it he found so admirable?"

"He… well, he only saw us a moment before he approached us, and he thought it was admirable that I was so fond of my father," Sam blurted out in one breath.

There was a long pause while this statement hung in the air; then they looked into each other's eyes and burst into laughter.

"Oh Sam, what are we going to do?"

"I don't know, my dear, but I'm going to enjoy finding out."


	7. Chapter 7

The Crash

Rating: T

Pairing: Samantha Stewart and Christopher Foyle

A/N: This A/U story of Sam and Mr Foyle is based on scenes from "The French Drop," "Enemy Fire," and (soon) "They Fought in the Fields." I welcome your feedback.

Thanks again to jewell and hazeleyes for indispensable co-writing/editing.

* * *

><p>Chapter Seven<p>

As they walked across the foyer of Arthur Whitehall's Cambridge home, Christopher Foyle reflected on the thrill he got simply from helping Samantha Stewart on with her coat; the chance to stand near this beautiful girl and to touch her in the course of placing it on her shoulders. The back of his hand had just brushed across the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. He consciously held back the shiver just that slight contact had aroused in him.

Arthur spoke to his departing guests from the doorway, breaking Foyle's reverie.

"So good to see you again, Christopher. Miss Stewart, it has been a singular pleasure to meet you. I hope to see you again quite soon."

"Thank you for a wonderful party. I feel almost as if there were no war at all," Sam smiled at their host.

"Miss Stewart," Arthur pulled her slightly away from Christopher's side and told her quietly, "It's been years since I have seen Christopher looking so at ease and happy. Please take good care of my friend."

Then Whitehall smiled broadly and produced a small package wrapped in newsprint. "A small gift for you. I hope you enjoy it."

Christopher good-naturedly reclaimed Sam from his friend and bade him goodbye with fondness.

As they walked down the steps of the house Foyle glanced down at Sam's shoes and asked, "It's not too far to the inn; will you be all right with the walk?"

"Oh yes, Christopher," Sam replied. "You haven't worn me out completely."

"It wasn't _my_ dances with you that I was concerned about," Christopher said with a smug and amused smile, "but some of those spotty young men I reluctantly allowed to dance with you looked quite inept."

"Yes, it's so nice to finally be away and alone with you." She sighed and he felt his heart rate increase. "I'm glad we got to dance as much as we did, but I wish every dance had been with you."

"What's in the package Arthur gave you?"

"I won't know exactly what until we get it into the light and unwrap it, but it feels like a book."

They strolled past darkened houses in companionable silence for a minute.

"Has Mr Whitehall ever been married?"

Foyle glanced at Sam, then down at the ground before he looked back at her and hesitantly answered.

"No."

Sam's look was filled with curiosity. Christopher was usually quite forthcoming with her. _Why is he being so cautious?_

Foyle took a deep breath. _Go on—you trust her. _

"Arthur is and has been my dear and trusted friend. He is a strong and courageous man—he fought in the last war, you know—but he never has married and I'm sure he never will."

Sam thought about Christopher's answer, knowing there was more to what he had said than just the words.

"Oh," Sam said, then paused for a bit. "_A tortured soul,_ my father would call him—and then proceed to try and save him from this 'evil.'"

"And… what do you think, Sam?"

"He didn't seem _tortured_ at all. He seems quite happy."

She went on, "I believe that the Lord God has created each of us in the manner He wished, and unless one is visiting evil on any of His other creations, it's of no matter to me. My father's view on sin is rather inflexible compared to mine, I'm afraid."

Foyle felt a rush of love for this young girl, a physical sensation that threatened to break through his chest. _So young and so mature. _**This** was why their love was not ridiculous. _Her maturity of thought is astonishing in one so young. I hope I can be her equal._

* * *

><p>Once they had arrived at The Eagle, Foyle walked Sam to her door, just around the turn of the corridor and down a short distance from his.<p>

"Goodnight, my darling," he whispered, pulling her close to give her a gentle, lingering kiss. She closed her eyes and emitted one of those fervent sounds of pleasure that always threatened to undo him, but he pulled away with obvious reluctance, a faint smile on his lips.

"Don't you want to come in?" she asked him, blinking slowly, her voice low. He was surprised, though not unpleasantly, by her artless seductiveness.

"Mmm. Not sure that would be such a good idea."

Sam gave him her beaming grin, her gaze alight in that way she had only when looking at him. He closed his eyes, taking a long breath as she tugged at his sleeve.

The still-soft voice took on a gently wheedling tone.

"But you said we might have a nightcap... Or, there is a little hotplate for the kettle in here. Let me make you some tea."

Christopher worried his lip, wondering if there were any way he could realistically enter her room and maintain his already taxed self-control. All evening long he had been imagining her as she had been the week before, beneath him in his arms on the floor, sweetly begging him with impassioned tones and the tilt of her body towards his... Just as now, he'd had to suppress this line of thought before he found his body reacting to it.

Sam hugged him again. "It's been such a lovely evening. But I didn't get enough time with you."

It took all Foyle's effort to resist what he wanted as much as Sam did.

"We'll have all day together tomorrow, y'know." He kissed her cheek; let his hands carefully shape along her waist. He forced himself not to stroke upward to her chest even as his hands gravitated in that direction, seemingly of their own will.

She sighed. "Hmm, yes, but most of the time then we'll be driving. What I mean is time to be..." she suddenly melded against him... "_close_ to you."

He moved his hips away from hers quickly. "God knows, my dearest girl, I want to be close, too, but I don't want to compromise you, and we _are_ away at an inn..."

Samantha's eyes searched his, and he could see questions in their depths. His mind churned with questions also.

_Does she want to spend this night with me? Even without knowing that I'd marry her in a heartbeat?_ His sudden little smile was almost self-mocking. _Maybe she __**does**__ know._

"Sam..."

But she had opened the door and pulled him by the wrist so that they stood just inside it. He felt dazed; only one drink had he consumed that evening, and yet he could scarcely remember how he got from one side of this door to the other.

True to her word, Samantha disappeared into the bathroom to fill the little tea kettle, then fussed with the small portable hob near the window, gently shaking the crinkled bag of tea provided to see how much they had.

He sat in the armchair and watched her with contentment._ There's nothing to worry about. We'll just talk and have tea, and then I'll go._

"What needs doing Monday?" she asked, carefully removing the paper from Arthur's gift.

He rubbed his forehead with one hand. "We'll see how Milner's done with the questions he was planning to ask Walter Mansfield. Might be follow-up. And I was thinking of checking in on Mrs Melcent and Daphne tomorrow, just to be sure they are all right. But only if you'd like to... haven't been giving you much time to yourself, I realise."

She smiled tolerantly at his assumption that she'd ever be reluctant to go anywhere with him.

"Look! His newest!" She held up for display a novel with an attractive design on the dust jacket. Sam read aloud the synopsis on the fold of the front cover. "How splendid it will be to read a book by an author I've come to know."

She set the book near her case and checked the kettle.

"When must Andrew go back to base?"

"I think he said he's to report back Monday morning. So lunch with him... or dinner."

"That would be nice."

They had talked during their drive to Cambridge about Andrew's enthusiastic response to the news that his father was seeing a young woman with whom Andrew had spent time himself. It was then that Sam had made it clear to Christopher how much more like friendship than romance her relationship with his son had been. She had laughed, musing, "I think he knew before _I_ did that you were the one I really wanted."

Now Sam appeared a little pensive. _Christopher doesn't get to see Andrew often enough. Selfish of you to wish even for a moment that we could have all of Sunday to ourselves after the socialising..._

Her heart melted to see her boss regarding her with his dear crumpled smile and dancing eyes. _Reading my mind again._

Their gaze held for a long moment; then she responded to the muted shriek of the tiny kettle and poured steaming water into an equally tiny teapot. She examined the stained china of the cups provided and turned back towards him only to find that he had risen and was directly behind her.

Foyle took her into his arms and kissed her so passionately that she lost all equilibrium. Sam tried to say his name as he briefly parted from her to change the angle of his head, but before she could speak his mouth was firmly claiming hers again. One hand was entwined in her hair and his grasp of her waist was so determined that she felt an exhilarating sense of something akin to danger.

Christopher couldn't be quite sure (as he contemplated it later) how his caution had so readily flown out the window, but it had something to do with her figure in that form-fitting dress, her warm eyes looking at him so lovingly, and his knowledge that she could spend six straight days with him and still want to be with him alone for one more. All that he could think of, once his lips took hers and he was lost in the subtly sweet scent of her hair and skin, was how much he _needed_ her as well as loved her. Maybe he wouldn't stop... maybe he would learn what it was to feel the beautiful softness of her breasts against the palms of his hands; to find out how much pleasure he could bring her if he only could touch every part of her... feel how hot and wet he could make her...

His hand moved slowly from her face to the back of her neck to her shoulder, and he turned it so that the backs of his fingers gently, slowly trailed along her ribs and down until his hands were gently cupping her bottom, gathering her in against him. He nibbled her ear lobe and teasingly explored her ear with his tongue.

Sam gave another throaty murmur and he echoed it, unconsciously pressing her against the wall in an effort to get as close as they could be while still standing. She raised her chin as he caressingly kissed her neck, his arms pinning hers as he moulded himself against her, trying desperately to assuage his ache. As much as she appreciated how he controlled himself for her sake, this slipping of his restraint gave her a heady sense of power and desirability. Breathing hard as she felt him move his hips over hers, she felt terribly wanton, which was rather thrilling, but—to her surprise—she didn't feel the least bit ashamed.

The look in his lidded eyes was very tender as he paused before moving downward, his mouth open as he brushed her neck and collarbone and unpinned her brooch to part her dress and touch the upper curve of her breasts with his lips. He smiled softly as he stopped to admire her impassioned face when she moaned in abandon, her lips parted and her fingers clutching the back of his head. Christopher used his thumb to move aside the fabric of her brassiere and as his tongue slowly swirled about her nipple, Sam's legs went out on her.

He clutched her waist before she could fall and slowly helped her to the chair where he had been sitting before. He knelt beside her and took her hands in his, bent his brow to them, and tried to calm his breathing.

His voice was hoarse. "Sam, darling…" His eyes showed the strain he was under, but still shone with love. I respect you just as much as I desire you and I'm afraid if I don't leave right now I'll do something we both—" Sam moved as if to interrupt him, and he gently placed his fingertips upon her lips—"I'll do something _I_ will regret for both of us. And that, I won't do." He passed his hand over his forehead and eyes.

Sam's passion was clamouring at her from every part of her body, but she forced herself to pay attention to the man she loved. As frustrating as it was, she knew that Christopher Foyle, honourable gentleman, was an important facet of the whole man. She desired him and he wanted her—of that she was sure—but they could wait until his respect for her could be satisfied along with their desire.

Sam tried not to sigh too dramatically. Her expression showed she clearly was not talking about the tea as she said with feigned concern, "I'm afraid the tea is getting cold; do let me pour it."

They smiled at each other as they sipped their tea and then bade each other goodnight with solicitous calm, cheered only in the knowledge that it was all a sham.

* * *

><p>Andrew was so distracted during their lunch next day that his father and Sam became quite concerned. He had learned in their absence that his squadron mate Greville Woods had been badly burnt in the crash of the plane he was flying on a mission the night before. Not only was Andrew anxious for his friend, but he was severely shaken to know that it was his Spitfire that Woods had been flying. "Could just as well have been me," he told them tremulously, still in a kind of stupor. He said he had even visited the hospital that morning and seen Greville being treated there; seen that the burns were near his eyes, and learned that the doctors were not sure he would regain his sight.<p>

"Didn't get to speak with him; they just let me look across the room at him. He couldn't see me." The young man's voice quaked; Foyle had never seen him so upset.

When his son told him later in the afternoon that he was going to the burn treatment hospital to see whether he could speak with Greville this time, Foyle hoped Andrew might find the young pilot's condition improved, so that he would be comforted. It was very nearly time for Andrew to return to the crucial duties that were a constant worry to his father.

Just before darkness fell, Sam kissed Christopher goodnight, drove the car to the station, and cycled home to her flat, hoping to get a good rest before the busy week ahead. Much to her shock she was greeted at her own doorstep by a disheveled Andrew, who told her in urgent tones that he had to see her.

"Shouldn't you—" She saw the frantic look in his eyes and softened. "You'd better come inside."

Once he was sitting numbly beside Merivale's fireplace, Sam brought him a spot of tea. "I wish I had some whisky or something, but it's all I've got."

He accepted the cup but only stared down at it.

"My landlady is a tolerant sort, but if she sees you here she'll think I'm deceiving your father," she chuckled nervously, hoping to jolly him out of his chilled withdrawal. "We're both for the high jump then."

The silence from Andrew was fraught.

"Don't you have to get back first thing tomorrow and—" she began.

"Sam." He looked her in the eyes. "I can't go back."

She stared at him in disbelief.

"What?" Sam wrung her hands. _This is not like Andrew at all._ "Why?"

"I can't. I don't care what happens to me."

She resorted to practicality. "But you must… they'll come looking for you!"

He bowed his dark head again.

"Andrew, what is it?"

"Oh, I'm so tired," he said, finally speaking to her instead of the teacup. He drew a long breath. "For weeks now… I don't sleep. I can't eat. I feel sick. And sometimes it's as if you… and Dad… and my friends… As if I don't even care about any of you. I know that's a horrible thing to say; I don't want it to be true. But it's as if you don't even exist for me."

"You're tired, that's _all._"

He fairly shouted at her. "I'm not just tired, Sam!"

His tone more subdued he confided, "When I saw Greville Woods… and the others in that place…"

"You don't need to think about them," Sam offered firmly, "because that's not going to happen to you—"

"It will happen to me. I know. He was in my plane, Sam. He flew my op." There was a tremor in Andrew's voice now. "It should have been me!"

Sam's face was full of sympathy, but she warned him firmly, "You can't stay here, Andrew." She gave a short, frustrated breath. "You've got to go back."

He only shook his head.

"They'll find you. You can't run away from them forever."

He began to weep, and with a voice distorted by crying, begged her, "Don't make me go back…"

"Oh, Andrew…" she whispered. She hastened to kneel beside him where he sat and put her arms around his shoulders as he shuddered with sobs and said again and again, "Don't make me go back."

* * *

><p>The next morning was an exceedingly busy one for Foyle and Milner. In addition to the Melcent case they had to further investigate the murder of Gordon Drake and the mysterious goings-on at the burn hospital. Christopher quickly noticed Sam's somewhat troubled demeanor and her quietness, but when he asked if she was all right, she only nodded and mumbled vaguely that she felt under the weather, allowing him to assume that it was for female reasons and therefore not up for discussion. He tried not to add worry about <em>her<em> to the anxiety he was feeling about Andrew; his son had not returned home the previous evening, nor had he left him word that he would be returning to base early. Foyle could, however, recall one other instance in which Andrew had had to leave suddenly and write him afterward to explain why, so he hoped that was the situation this time.

At any rate there was so much to ponder about the multiple cases of the day that he could not let his mind dwell for long upon either of these personal worries, and of that he was glad.

When Foyle figured out that Mrs Roecastle the housekeeper had been responsible for the disturbances round the military hospital, including the theft of the medications, he used a ruse to bring her to confession, knowing that her loyalty to her longtime employer Sir Michael Waterford would prevent her from allowing his arrest for the crimes. Once the misguided woman was escorted back to the station, Christopher took a walk with Sir Michael, listening as he described why Drake had blackmailed him. It further linked Drake's death to Waterford's house, but also turned out to be a personal confession of Waterford's own desperation during the Battle of Ypres. Recalling his son's angst of the previous day, the policeman was thoughtful as Waterford told him how ashamed he had felt, all these years, about injuring himself in order to escape the horrors of the combat.

When the dispirited man told him he had lost his self-respect 25 years before, Foyle suggested that he think about working there in the burn hospital that once had been his home.

Seeming to think he was not worthy of their company, Sir Michael said shakily, "But these men are so brave." He sighed. "We call them 'The Few,' but who'd have thought this country could produce so many of them?"

Foyle spoke quietly. "My son's one of them."

"Then you're a very fortunate man."

* * *

><p>When Foyle and the still-preoccupied Sam entered the station, Wing Commander Turner was there to meet them. Sam nervously saluted him as he asked the DCS if he might have a word, and they disappeared into his office. Just before the DCS shut the door, Sam heard Turner stating, "I shouldn't be here, Mr Foyle; it goes against every rule in the book."<p>

Sam's stomach twisted into a knot as she watched them go. She could guess why the officer was there, and as far as she knew, Andrew was still holing up in her flat. At least Merivale was not present to ask questions about him, as she had left the Thursday before to visit her daughter and did not plan to return until Wednesday.

Samantha had convinced Andrew to lie down on the sofa, found him a blanket, and heartsick, left him there to cry himself to sleep. Before leaving for the station the following morning she had given him her paltry ration of breakfast except for one piece of toast, then encouraged him again to return to base while she was at work. Without responding to that request, he had made her promise not to tell his father where he was, and reluctantly, she had given her word.

Foyle had met Wing Commander Turner under tense circumstances once before, and he greatly respected the man's flinty protectiveness for his men. Turner explained to him that Andrew was absent without leave, but that as he had been gone less than 24 hours the Wing Commander had decided not to report his absence yet to the RAF police. He looked at Andrew's father, who had asked in a careful way what would happen if Andrew were found. Then, sounding more gentle than usual, Turner told Foyle that he believed there could be more sympathy—and wished there could be more rest—given to men who were suffering from shell shock or mental strain. Christopher was relieved to learn that the man was as understanding as he was vigilant.

"Well he's certainly not been himself recently… but I've not seen him since yesterday—late afternoon. I thought he had been called away early and that's why he didn't return last night."

Turner looked dejected, but his steeliness was back. "Well, in that case there's nothing I can do. He'll be charged with desertion."

Something clicked in Foyle's mind as the Wing Commander headed for his office door. "Umm…"

The commander turned to face him.

Foyle stood. "How long has he got?"

"I can give him until 3 o'clock this afternoon. No longer than that."

The DCS watched Turner walk down the corridor of the station, past the young woman who had been behaving so very strangely all day. He had realised all at once that there must be some connexion. He was quelling anger to think that she had not told him about this, but he should hear her out. However, as soon as she looked his way he could see the uneasiness and guilt in her expression.

All he had to do was cock an eyebrow, and she knew that he knew everything.


	8. Chapter 8

The Crash

A/N: Oh-oh, Sam's in trouble…

**WARNING:** Rated M, but in a sweet way

* * *

><p>Chapter Eight<p>

Samantha Stewart had never known Christopher Foyle to raise his voice, even when he was dreadfully angry at someone. His words would become clipped, his stare icier, but he would remain ominously quiet, and that was what his voice was like as he spoke to her now.

"Where is he, Sam?"

She swallowed hard. "Christopher, I—"

"You must understand. If I don't get him back to the base in two hours' time, he'll be charged with desertion. You do realise what that means."

The look on his face was stern and disappointed. She was reminded of the time he had become angry at her for not telling him Violet was seeing Andrew; then as now, it was her instinct to protect Andrew that had led Sam to lie to his father by omission.

When he had asked her that other time why she had not told him, his face was pained but understanding, his eyebrows tilted upward towards each other, his brow furrowed in an expression of hurt.

Now he had that same look—one of having been betrayed, but also of feeling apologetic that he even had to speak to her disapprovingly about it. Sam felt utterly miserable.

"I'll take you." She turned to lead him back out to the car.

They said nothing to each other until she pulled into Meri's street, and Foyle's jaw dropped. "He's—he stayed here?" Sam had told him Sunday during their drive back that Merivale was leaving that day to visit her daughter in London for a week.

Sam braked the car and fell back against the seat, looking at him sharply. _Just what does he mean by that?_ Part of her felt ashamed that she had not been truthful with him, but if he were assuming for one _moment _that her sheltering Andrew was an indication of infidelity…

She returned his look of consternation. "I can't believe you'd—"

"We'll discuss it later. No need for you to wait," he said curtly as he exited the car. Sam watched him knock on Meri's door.

She squinted her eyes shut to hold back tears as she rapidly drove off. She couldn't bear having Andrew look at her as if betrayed, as well.

* * *

><p>The policeman bought his son a whisky at the bar of the Greek restaurant just down the street from Sam's. Their bracing walk had been a silent one, Foyle wanting to move fast at the same time that he wanted to quietly sit his boy down and try to find out, without pressuring him, what the bloody hell was going on.<p>

He looked at Andrew warily, pushing his hat back slightly.

"Want to tell me what happened last— erm, yesterday?"

Andrew stared into the amber liquid in his glass.

"I just couldn't handle how I felt, Dad. I… don't know why I couldn't tell you that, but it felt… I suppose I felt like a coward. All I could think of was that _you_ made it through a bloody war, and might not understand. I thought, 'Sam might be sympathetic,' and I didn't stop to think—"

Foyle gnawed at his lower lip.

"So you went to see her… last evening?" His voice was level, but he didn't meet his son's eyes.

"I did. Waited for her to arrive home and then asked to talk with her. She made me some tea and listened to me blather on…" Andrew examined his father's uneasy face. "I kept begging her not to make me go back, and was in such a state that she took pity on me and let me stay on the sofa there in her landlady's sitting room. The landlady's away until midweek, else, well… don't know what I'd have done."

His father drew a deep breath, his chin tucked toward his tie.

"Dad, I didn't go there to gain Sam's sympathy in any… romantic way. I _wouldn't _do that. _Ever._ She was simply the first person I thought of. And she was a brick. She heard me out but kept firmly telling me I would have to go back. I didn't want her to leave me by myself before I fell asleep—I'll admit that—but she gave me a blanket and she went upstairs. I know when she left this morning she was hoping like mad that I'd leave then, too, and go back." He shut his eyes, looking resigned, and said dully, "I've let everyone down, haven't I?"

Relief and compassion softened Christopher's expression and his voice. His eyes were kind. "No, not at all; that's not the case."

He went on to tell Andrew about Turner's leniency and how glad he'd been that the Wing Commander understood about combat fatigue, especially as Foyle's encounter with Sir Michael had brought home again how ghastly the attitude towards all this had been during the last war.

"So the important thing now is to get you back. I'll telephone for a taxi."

"Where's Sam?"

"Well, I've made her very cross, and I can't deal with that and saying goodbye to you at the same time."

"Cross with you? How could...? Did you argue about her hiding me?"

"You might put it that way." He ran his hand from brow to chin and tugged at his face. "The truth is, I distrusted you both for a moment. You've just put my mind at ease, and I'm now rather ashamed at the path it took."

Foyle looked distinctly sheepish.

"I should have trusted Sam without requiring proof."

Andrew raised his eyebrows in a way that eventually would give him the same forehead furrows as his father.

"You mean you accused her of… ? Oh, Dad."

"Didn't accuse her, really—I was just taken aback to realise you'd stayed there. I knew Merivale wasn't about, and it made me… and partly I was um, worried about the danger you'd find yourselves in if you had treason charges come down on your head. I was angry because I was scared, I suppose. And… all right, jealous. Just a flash of it. Because I'm not certain where I stand."

Andrew was impressed to hear so many words out of his father's mouth at once.

"Honestly, old thing, I can't fathom why you don't go ahead and ask her to marry you and be done with it."

"I suppose I've been concerned about… scaring her off."

"First of all, Dad, I've been thinking about this since you told me. When I look back now, I see it. She's always been crazy about you. The few dates we had she'd already left off 'My father says…' and was saying '_Your_ father says…' and just in case you're thinking that indicates a daughterly feeling toward you, she'd get such a sparkle when we talked about you; instantly looked giddy almost, and… and as if she had some secret. When I kissed her she seemed tense and not… comfortable, nothing like her manner yesterday at home, when she'd brush by you or touch you. I'd wager she doesn't seem as standoffish when _you're_ the one doing the kissing."

Christopher could not control the blush that overcame him as he mentally confirmed his son's supposition. He shook his head once imperceptibly, feeling somewhat uncomfortable.

"There. You see? Don't worry, she'll get over your gaffe. Just apologise for being jealous and tell her it wouldn't be love if you weren't."

They had arrived at the airfield, and a glance at his watch told Andrew he needed to get a move on. Foyle asked the taxi driver to wait as he walked round the car to hand his son his kit bag.

"You'll be all right, Andrew. It's perfectly normal to feel overwhelmed by it, but you have the strength it takes."

"'Bye, Dad." Andrew squeezed Christopher's hand. He'd wished he could hug the man again ever since the time Dad had held him after Rex's death; how comforting it had been, how unusually close. "And thanks."

_Why the hell not?_ He gathered in a surprised Foyle and hugged him close very quickly. A couple of thumps at his back were the affectionate response. Then Andrew headed at speed for the airfield headquarters.

* * *

><p>As Foyle entered his office to find Sam seated there, his emotions were similar to Sam's earlier ones when she first realised he knew she'd helped Andrew hide out.<p>

He circled his desk and realised that he had not hung up his hat, which he now turned round and round in his hands. Sam's eyes rested coolly upon him for only an instant as she asked, "Did he get back in time?"

He sat, placing the hat on the desk.

"Yesss. I rang for a taxi, partly so that you'd not have to come all that way back."

"I see." Her tone was frosty and her eyes appeared to be fixed on something outside his window. "I do suppose you'd be taking an awful chance, letting me anywhere near your son given my inability to control myself in his presence."

The last thing Foyle expected to feel was the need to squelch a smile, but that sarcastic little speech seemed rather carefully rehearsed.

"Sam, I—"

"Do we have anywhere else to go today?" she asked politely. Still no eye contact.

"No, I think Milner… no. But—"

"Then if you don't need me, I wonder if you'd mind my leaving now. There are a great many things I need to do for Meri in her absence, and… and I should attend to them."

He had no choice but to accede to her request. He gave a single nod, and to his surprise and exasperation, she left.

* * *

><p>It had niggled at Milner's brain since the previous week; one of the Morehouse lorry drivers interviewed for information about Rhys Melcent had spoken of him in such an elaborately praiseworthy way that it struck a false chord. He just had a feeling there was something behind that… and that it related somehow to Philip Garson's reluctance to talk about Bea Stanley.<p>

As Constable Brown drove him back towards the station after Mrs Roecastle's arrest, he thought about the conversation he and Foyle had had that morning with the unctuous Walter Mansfield.

"I already told you gentlemen all that I know about Rhys." There was just enough emphasis on the word "gentlemen" that it teetered on the line between sarcasm and respect. The not-quite-sullen young man kicked at a short length of rope in the brownish grass of his tiny house's garden.

Foyle gave him the piercing eye. "What do you know about a man named Roke Hechinger?"

Mansfield's pale eyebrows went up minutely, but he answered, "Nothing."

"But you've heard that name."

A pause. "I think he used to work for Morehouse, but I never met him. That's all—heard the name."

Milner glared at the uncooperative witness. "How could you know nothing about a man you worked with in Brighton for nearly a year?"

"Where'd you get that?"

Foyle smirked. "Does it matter?"

His sergeant paced haltingly for a moment, then turned angrily toward Mansfield.

"Was this Hechinger the one who suggested you get involved in black market activity?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

Paul Milner glared at the stubborn man. _Could I get more information out of Garson?_

* * *

><p>DCS Foyle and Sam had still been out at noon, so after a bite at the station, Milner asked Constable Brown to drive him to Garson's flat.<p>

Foyle threw off his covers and twisted wearily again to examine the dial of his bedside clock in the moonlight. 2:30. There was nothing for it… he was going to have to act, rather than merely hashing this out in his brain yet again. He rose and quietly began to get dressed again.

* * *

><p>He heard her call through the door warily. "Who is it, please?"<p>

"It's Christopher, Sam."

Her expression as she slowly opened the door was a marvel of mixed emotions: he could see that she was fighting a broad smile, and he could also sense a tinge of surprise and relief, but she was struggling to look angry with him. Really, he didn't blame her.

The look changed again to: _Well, you're here, and you can't just stand in my doorway at this hour of the night! _She gestured with a slight turn of her head for him to come in.

He tried to keep his eyes on hers in the darkness, but could barely see. "Is Merivale still away?" he whispered.

She nodded. "Still visiting her daughter in London."

"Darling, I owe you an apology."

She felt her face go warm at his endearment; still she tried to remain resolute.

He let the words tumble out. "I-I've always thought of you as completely trustworthy, and for a moment I thought you had broken that trust. It didn't keep me from loving you, but it hurt. I didn't know what to make of it. I haven't slept a wink since you left, and I had to come see you..."

Sam realized suddenly that he had walked this whole way—more than two miles from his home—in the middle of the night. She wondered if he had crossed over East Hill or come round the long way.

"I had to come tell you that, having thought about it, I realized you were just being trustworthy for someone else, and that it must have been difficult for you to hold a secret from me, but it was the honorable thing to do."

She nodded, trying not to let the tears in her eyes go any further. He understood!

"And as for thinking that Andrew and you… it wasn't reasonable; I didn't think it through; I just felt it and my rational side knows you wouldn't… d-didn't…"

"If only you had _seen_ him, Christopher. He was so distraught and scared and confused… he was… he was a frightened little boy! 'Don't make me go back,' he kept saying. And I knelt and I held him, _yes,_ but my dear, I… well, I know this will sound absurd, but I felt like his mother! It was difficult to know what to do. And I was so devastated when you didn't understand. I thought you knew me better. But it's true we haven't known each other long..."

He winced. "No, don't excuse me. It was wrong of me to think you were betraying me in any way. And it was especially wrong of me to show such anger. If I have any kind of explanation to offer, it's only that I've been so mixed up about my feelings for you and my need to let you know—without scaring you—that, um…"

_Damn it, tell her!_

Samantha looked steadily into his eyes as he spoke. When he cast them down in confusion, she said, "I love you and I want to make love with you. It feels so forward to say this, so impatient, maybe not very mature... but I want to marry you."

He stared at her for long seconds.

"I was so afraid to say that," he almost whispered. "And yet equally afraid to let you wonder about my intentions."

Her bright, loving smile glowed despite the murk of the room. "I felt the same. 'Don't rush the poor man into anything, even if you _have_ been dreaming of him all these months.'"

Christopher had to fight tears. "Come here."

He held her, shutting his eyes in bliss at the immeasurable relief of her body against his, stroking her lovely, pillow-rumpled hair with one hand as the other gently rubbed the length of her back. The flannel of her nightdress was so soft to his touch, and seemed such a symbol of innocence; at the same time he ran his palm along the curve of her waist and hip and it made him dizzy with desire. He breathed deeply of her delicate but heady floral scent and buried his face against her neck as he once again willed himself to keep his hands from wandering.

Sam trembled, wondering what it meant for them to have this resolved as they stood in a house alone together.

Part of his brain still wished to keep their wedding night sacrosanct; another part of it thought, now she was _his _and always would be, nothing should keep them from enjoying each other to the fullest. He was quite torn; was he a cad, or would he prefer to face Reverend Stewart without having prematurely deflowered his daughter?

Then Sam—knowing full well what _she_ hoped would happen—turned her face so that their lips were touching and hugged his chest even closer into hers, and the idea of making love to her consumed him.

Sam's long half-humming sigh was drowned by his determined possession of her lips; he held her so tight that she felt her ribs compress. He fitted his body against hers and when she tilted her hips to further enjoy the sensation, he couldn't stifle a groan. Still he pulled back momentarily, rested his lips against the loose hair at her temple, tried to collect his wits.

"Sam. We mustn't... shouldn't..." he stopped, terribly conflicted. "I just don't want to rush you into anything, or make you think..."

"Hush," she whispered. "We know we belong to each other." She kissed his cheek lingeringly, stroked his hair. "I want this."

He turned his head slowly and looked deep into her eyes, memorising their expression, memorising just how she looked at this moment. Then he tilted his head to cover her lips with his, and his tongue slowly explored her mouth more deeply than ever before. Sam could barely breathe; as if it weren't enthralling enough to be borne along on this tide of intense sensation, there was the knowledge that they would keep going this time; no stopping.

When he released her lips and managed to open his eyes, her glorious smile made his heart melt; those lovely dimples, and the way her eyes seemed to dance with joy…

With a happy sigh she took his hand, leading him up the stairs.

Her bed was not actually made for two, but had ample width for their foremost purpose.

She lay invitingly upon it and Christopher slowly began undoing his tie, gazing at her with eyes that brimmed with wonder and love. He unfastened the cufflinks and buttons he had refastened such a short time before, and Sam watched in fascination as he removed his shirt and singlet under it. His powerful shoulders and ribcage were more evident without his crisp attire, and she shivered with anticipation of stroking his skin and seeing the other hidden aspects of his body. Christopher took her in his arms and Sam gave her lips up to his kiss with such passion, held him with such strength, that he felt a surge of pleasure that seemed to incorporate even his head and his toes.

"Samantha," he murmured between kisses, "my wife..."

She stroked the warm skin of his back as he dropped his lips to her tender neck. To her he smelled so wonderful; though the slight rasp of his shadow of beard confirmed that he hadn't shaved in several hours, the light perspiration of his brisk walk to see her faintly revived his shaving lotion, mixed with a hint of starch even after his shirt was gone.

Free to pass his hands over her body as he had been longing to, he caressed her into a frenzy, nipping softly at her ears and neck until she was arching her hips to push closer to him. He was making her insane and they'd scarcely started, she thought.

He stopped suddenly to look in her dark eyes, and she examined every pattern and fleck in his, feeling emotional at the loving look she saw there.

"Christopher," she said urgently, "I want to feel you inside of me."

He closed his eyes, overcome to hear the words—in the very voice— he had so often heard in his daydreams. Nevertheless his hand slid slowly down her waist and hip and thigh, and softly, experimentally, he explored with trembling fingers.

"Oh—" she was unprepared for the exquisite pleasure of his touch, but gave herself up to it in delighted abandon until her breath and her short moans were climbing along with the beautiful tension he was creating.

"Wait—" she cried, even as the thing she had wanted to wait for overcame her and she felt the intense bloom of pleasure throughout her body. She shook her head slowly as she caught her breath, stroking his cheek...

"I wanted you to feel it too."

Christopher smiled. "You'll get more than one, you know." He brushed a bit of damp hair from her brow and looked at her seriously. Then he said in a low tone that made her quiver, "You'll have as many as you'd like me to give you."

"More than anything, I want to give that feeling to _you,_" she half-whispered. He dipped his head, shaking it with awe at how generous she always was.

"I have my hopes," he said softly as he brushed his lips along her eyelids and cheek and throat, "that it will be a lovely feeling for us both."

Sam was already responding with enthusiasm to his gentle touches of her with his mouth, caresses of her skin with his hands, and it was all he could do to slow himself down, to make this last so they both could savour it. He had been sliding his hands up under her gown, but now he wanted to feel her full-length against him. He helped her off with her nightie and worked off the rest of his clothes. He gazed breathlessly at her creamy skin, her taut nipples.

_What ever did I do to deserve such perfection?_

Christopher's gasp when her fingers wandered along his inner thigh and explored lower made Sam want to laugh joyfully.

She loved eliciting that reaction and she thrilled to hear his long low sound of pleasure.

Yet he stopped her.

"_Dear_ Sam, I may not last long... it's been such a very long time... but I want so much—_unhh_—to see to you."

"You have seen to me—she skimmed her hand back up and teased past, stroking his hip bone— "and now I shall see to you."

He shifted to lie on her, supporting his weight on his elbows, and gazed into her eyes as he moved as close to her as they could be without the last step. She sighed deeply and made a small pleading moan.

Sympathetic concern filled his eyes and he whispered vehemently, "I hate to cause you any pain."

His young but wise lover entwined her fingers in the back of his hair and closed her eyes dreamily. "You are the first... and that makes up for any brief pain. Don't wait any longer, Christopher. Please, my darling..."

* * *

><p>Christopher Foyle awoke a bit later to find his beautiful young fiancée softly kissing his shoulders and chest and, when she noticed his half-open eyes, his cheek. Daringly she reached down to take hold of him and he involuntarily hissed in his breath.<p>

"...Darling girl, at my age I'm not sure I can..."

She smiled sweetly, wickedly. "Yes, you can. I'll show you."

And she did.

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Philip Garson was similar to Paul Milner in many ways. Perhaps that was why the Sergeant rather liked the younger man, despite his flashpoint temper. Paul knew how it felt to snap when pushed too far… or to flare up when someone hit a sore spot of his psyche, as Mr Foyle had last year, when he had initially seemed not to understand the complex confusion and pain behind Paul's conversations with Nazi sympathiser Guy Spencer.

Showing up again at Garson's tiny house mid-Monday, Milner steeled himself to the expected reaction of annoyance. But when the saturnine young man opened his door to Milner, holding a pair of shoes in one hand and a couple of shirts slung over his arm, he merely raised inquisitive eyebrows and quietly gestured for the detective to enter.

At Milner's questioning look, he supplied, "Called up to drive already. I leave tomorrow."

Milner nodded, a quiet smile of encouragement on his lips, and to his surprise, Garson smiled too. It made for a startling change in the lean man's face—how much more relaxed he appeared than during their last interview.

"Caught you just in time, then. I've just been talking with Walter Mansfield, and—" he stopped at the slight lift of Garson's eyebrows. "What can you tell me about him?"

A veil seemed to pass over Garson's face; he was shuttering up, holding something back.

Milner sighed, and walked about the room a bit, trying to loosen the omnipresent stiffness in the upper part of his leg when he'd stood with his weight on the prosthesis for more than a minute at a time.

_Maybe someday I'll get used to this and not think of it every moment of every day…_

Trying a new tack, the sergeant turned and smiled again. "I'm glad, Mr Garson, to hear that you can now go and drive military lorries; I know you wanted to be useful to the war effort. I wish you'd also be of some use to _this _effort—Daphne deserves the satisfaction of seeing Rhys' murderer brought to justice."

Garson gave the tiniest of nods, his mouth a clenched, semi-pursed line. He echoed Milner's thoughtful sigh and put the clothing down on a worn upholstered chair in one corner of his sitting room.

"You've been square with me and I'll tell ya what I know," he said with a friendlier tone to his lilt. "I didn't say before because I… well, I've thought on it since, and I think it's safe, now I'm leaving."

"Safe." Milner's brow furrowed.

"The whole reason Rhys ever did any of the runnin' was to impress his girl, Bea. And that woman was trouble. A beauty but one that always was wantin' her way and making a man's life complicated. I think he knew it all along, but then she started seeing that Roke Hechinger.

"He was the one gettin' in with the worst of the rackets… before when Rhys was doing it, 'was just a few cigarettes and lighters. Roke was drivin' Bea round town, sending her into shops to see if they could trick the assistants into selling them goods off ration. When they started in with that, Rhys told me himself he didn't think that was right. His mother struggling each week to figure out how to feed them on what little they had…"

Sergeant Milner nodded his understanding, and Philip Garson sighed.

"Anyway, he could see that Bea was starting to make a play for this 'more daring' bloke and he started backing away. He'd met Daph by then and was changing all, like I told you before. Then Bea made a big show of charming Rhys in front of her 'new man.' Roke didn't like that, and Rhys and him had words—more than once. I wouldn't ha' wished to cross him… he was that vicious. And I saw him almost hit Rhys once."

* * *

><p>Walking to the station Tuesday morning, Milner mused, <em>If Rhys and Roke did fight, then it really is crucial we talk to this Hechinger, wherever he's got to. <em>

He was so deep in thought as he walked into the station and paused just inside the doors, he didn't realise immediately that Mr Rivers was looking at him worriedly.

"Sergeant Milner, 'morning. Have you seen DCS Foyle this morning?"

Paul snapped out of his daze and stared at the desk sergeant. "Nnooo… did he mention that he'd be out before coming in today?"

"Just the opposite… he'd said he planned to come in early before heading out to that house that was robbed in St Leonards. But I haven't seen nor heard from him…or from Sam, for that matter."

"Well, I'll look on my desk in case he left word, but I shouldn't worry. He probably just changed his mind when Sam went to fetch him and decided to head straight out."

"Er… but that's the other thing. The police car. It's parked out back and hasn't been run this morning."

"And no word from Sam…" Paul's eyebrows arched.

As he sat down at his own desk and found no note or indication of his colleagues' plans, he remembered the strangeness of their behaviour the day before. In contrast to their usual easy and jocular communication, each was quiet and preoccupied—maybe even tense. He had wondered if any attempt on his part to make conversation would even be welcomed.

Had they had some sort of argument? Anything to do with Andrew? That could well be a source of contention, he reflected. _Sam did step out with him, even if only briefly_.

And if they did argue, it still would not keep them from reporting to work punctually. Milner had seen Sam in a chastened but dutiful mode before, and of course Mr Foyle could shut out any adversity with his work… force of habit.

* * *

><p>Sam lay listening to Christopher's heartbeat as he slept. Though the two were lying entwined, a matter of necessity in the narrow bed, she didn't mind a bit. They'd have to arise soon, and they'd decidedly not had much sleep.<p>

What had it been? Three in the morning? …that he had shown up at her door, and they had fallen into her bed only about 15 minutes later, but probably an hour or more had passed before they fell asleep. Then she had wakened him only half an hour or so later, already craving him again, and they had explored each other for an even longer time. It was almost light now, so surely they would be running late for the station if they didn't get up and ready themselves.

Foyle awoke gradually and his eyes focused on Sam's face. She smiled up at him, her eyes telling him how full her heart was.

Last night had been even more wonderful an experience than he had dreamed it would be. He was so relieved it hadn't hurt her—almost as relieved as he had been to learn she wasn't injured when Mrs Harrison's house was bombed, or when he'd found her unhurt when exposed to that bomb in Bexhill. His eyes welled up and he felt his stomach tighten just at the thought.

"Christopher!" she furrowed her brow at his wet eyes. "What is it?"

He smiled weakly. "Just glad you're alive and well and willing to marry me."

"Willing?" she waggled her eyebrows at him. "I shall insist upon it now!"

"Hmm. And well you might. Especially since I didn't—"

"Doesn't matter," she soothed, her fingers on his lips. "We'll probably be all right, anyway, but if we're not, we'll probably be wed by the time we know."

"What sort of wedding would you like to have, Sam?" he asked, vaguely fearful that a vicar's daughter would envisage something elaborate. He smiled as she cast her eyes upward in thought. _Though she would look splendid in a wedding gown..._

"Well, I know Mother and Father probably would be very disappointed with the registry office, but I believe they'd be rather relieved not to have it _too_ grand. Maybe St Clements?" Remembering the National Day of Prayer, she smiled. "Do you know how much I loved sitting with you that day? Pretending I was your wife?"

"Was that when your aspirations to be a nun went by the wayside?" he teased.

Her dark eyes were wide and sweet as she answered, not without some seriousness, "Being with you made me sure I couldn't lead a celibate life."

Christopher smiled through tears. "I could say the same of you."

* * *

><p>At the moment of possessing each other she had cried out and he had stilled. It was so difficult at times to distinguish between an expression of pain and one of pleasure, and he felt alarm until she opened her eyes. He could see then how relaxed and happy she was, and it was contagious. Then she writhed and whispered, "We're so close to each other."<p>

His eyes danced as he said, "Reasonably sure it's impossible to be any closer."

Sam's giggle had turned into a gasp as he stirred within her and held her even tighter, his hand moving slowly up from where he had braced her hip to the small of her back and then to her shoulder blade. She shuddered deliciously. Something about his soothing caresses was infinitely relaxing and warming, and yet built a tension within her at the same time. She stretched luxuriously beneath him and made a sound that drove him wild; he kissed her with such intensity that she was almost overwhelmed, though she exalted in trying to keep up.

Her eagerness and enthusiasm made up for any lack of experience, and he was so touched by her concern for his enjoyment. Teaching her all the ways that they could share pleasure was going to be a joy.

Lying naked with her glorious hair all spread upon the pillow, she'd brought to his mind Poynter's painting of Andromeda on sea-crashed rocks.

The beauty of that painting had always struck him whenever he'd seen it at the Royal Academy. The curly auburn hair waving gently back, the classical figure; the pale luminescent face with the rosy full lips. It was Sam! But the living, breathing Andromeda in his arms was so much better. The intelligence in her eyes didn't impede a concurrent sense of wonder and delight that also was so much a part of Sam.

Thinking of all this as he stroked her lightly freckled skin in the early morning light had him ready for her all over again. All these years out of practice, and yet she made it seem so easy for him. But what time must it be? His watch was in his waistcoat pocket and that particular item was on the floor across the room. Judging from the sunlight they already were late, and those at the station were probably wondering where they were.

"Did you leave the car at the station, Sam?"

She nodded.

"Hmm. We need to figure out just how to explain our lateness. I _would_ have to go and tell Mr Rivers I'd arrive early today." He wore a gently worried smile.

Samantha toyed with some of the hair on his chest. "To say you didn't get much sleep, and then overslept, would not be untruthful."

He bent to kiss closed first one of her eyes and then the other. "And, with the Wolseley parked in plain sight, why didn't _you_ report for work?"

Sam shrugged philosophically at the impossibility of their avoiding subterfuge given their situation; a goofy smile tugged at her lips.

"Perhaps we shouldn't arrive together. You could go ahead, say what I've just suggested, and say that… that you told me I could come to work later if I wished."

He hummed with assent as he nuzzled and nibbled her neck and she wriggled with pleasure. "Just how late are we going to be?" she asked him suggestively.

* * *

><p>Their plan worked reasonably well; they probably weren't fooling Milner or Rivers (Foyle thanked heaven Hugh Reid was not on hand when he arrived at the station), but neither man was inclined to push Foyle into any uncomfortable situation.<p>

Foyle consulted his watch as he walked in. Lord… 9:40!

"I apologize, gentlemen. Got a terribly late start—not much sleep last night—and I let Sam know she could have the morning off. I believe she'll be in before noon; then we'll need to head over to the Julians' house about the jewellery." His cool grey-blue gaze bent upon them a challenge lest they question him, but he received only silent nods.

Milner began to brief his boss on what he had learned from Garson that morning, and they discussed ways to track down Hechinger.

* * *

><p>Gazing into the mirror as she smoothed her uniform over her hips, Sam thought of a book she had read, in which a young wife had peered at herself in the mirror the morning after her wedding night and wondered if everyone could tell she was different.<p>

"_You_ certainly look different," she told herself aloud, then smiled radiantly. She was so looking forward to the rest of the day, to the experience of having their secret and endeavouring to keep it, to working with him now that she was free to tell him anything.

Her smile faded slightly. They would soon have to tell her parents, though, and there she wasn't sure what to expect. She knew that Christopher was worried, given that only six months before he had reassured Reverend Stewart as to Sam's moral safety, and now he was, in his own only half-joking words, "the one corrupting her."

She did not look on what they were sharing as corruption at all. She looked upon it as lovely and right and magical. She knew her father and mother would not approve if they knew (even understanding that Sam and Christopher were planning to be married), and hoped that her father would not feel it necessary to question Christopher on this point.

When she entered the station and saw Mr Rivers she found herself struggling not to blush, but she gave him a quick hello without further explanation and headed straight for Christopher's door. Milner, back in Mr Foyle's office to let him know what new information he had discovered about the spivs' activities, looked up as Sam opened the door to let her boss know she had arrived. Sam had intended only to say, "I'm here, Sir, if you need me," but suddenly such a statement seemed a bit too revelatory and she sputtered, "I'm here, Sir, erm… all present and correct."

Her blush flowered fully this time. _Damn! Am I going to do that every time anyone looks at me?_


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Milner smiled at Sam in his reassuring way, trying to hide his amusement at the fact that Mr Foyle was reddening slightly, too. So it probably was as he suspected; his colleagues had been together that morning. The sergeant felt fairly confident that the two could continue to work together without letting their feelings disrupt things, but he did wonder how the Commissioner was going to take it if he found out. And consequently, just how quiet Sam and Foyle, and the rest of the station's denizens, would need to keep things.

"Good, Sam. Have a seat." Foyle gestured to the free chair in the room and Milner watched them avoid each other's eyes. "We'll go out to the Julians' presently, but I wanted you to hear what Sergeant Milner has learned about Rhys Melcent and the lot he used to hang about with."

* * *

><p>On the drive to St Leonards, Christopher said, "We should go visit your parents, Sam. Explain to them what we've—explain to them that we wish to become engaged." (Pause.) "I want to speak to your father properly; to ask for your hand."<p>

Sam suppressed a half-amused, half-affectionate smile at his old-fashionedness. "I hope they will understand. I shall phone them this evening to tell them we'll call on them Saturday."

"Barring any urgent case."

Foyle thought Milner had the Melcent case well in hand, but should things still be unresolved by Wednesday, he thought he might ask the younger detective if he felt more of Foyle's participation were warranted. Paul Milner had been working so well on his own over the course of these eventful few weeks that Foyle wanted to encourage his continued autonomy and help him feel more confident.

* * *

><p>Both Christopher and Sam were quiet on the return drive, though without any sense of isolation or awkwardness. He could not resist keeping up a light contact with her, his fingers near her arm or shoulder again. Once, when he caught her eyes and was sure he would not be startling her, his hand lightly brushed her thigh and then rested there. Sam kept her eyes on the road, but a wide smile was her love's reward.<p>

Despite his lack of sleep he kept wondering how she would react if he were to invite her to spend that night with him; the thought of her in his arms while they slept more comfortably in his wider bed gave him a little thrill, and there was one more night for which she might be away without worrying Meri. They had spoken this morning of marrying at the earliest available opportunity, but there were the Stewarts' feelings on the matter to consider. Much depended upon their reaction to the news and to the preferences of Sam's mother in regard to the ceremony and reception. Were it up to Sam, she'd assured him, she would marry him that very day if the license could be obtained.

Now Christopher cleared his throat. "My love." Her expression of melting happiness gave him a lift in his chest, and he returned it; she thought how unusual it was to see his fine straight teeth and the upward-turned version of his grin. She felt an absurd desire to kiss his smile.

_I've seen him smile more in the last week than in all the months before. How beautiful it makes him! _

The young woman struggled to return to the proper level of concentration on her driving, but his next words made her decide to pull over and stop behind the next available hedge.

"Won't you come home with me tonight?" he whispered. "If you're as tired as I am, we'd best just sleep, but I keep hoping you'll say yes anyway. It's so hard to know when we'll be free to be as open about all this as we'd like to be, but last night was just... just..." he couldn't think of the most apposite word.

Sam laid her hand softly alongside his face. "I'd miss you so much more than ever tonight," she told him. "Of course I shall. I want to kiss you as we stand beside the bed, just as we did the first time… only this time we can stay in that room and go on and on if we want to."

He shut his eyes in ecstasy at the thought. A good 10 minutes had passed before Sam neatened her hair and started the engine once again.

* * *

><p>At the sharp rap on his office door a few hours later, Christopher, not taking his eyes from the file he was perusing, called, "Come in."<p>

He glanced up to find the Reverend Iain Stewart standing in his doorway, his kindly face beaming at he prospect of surprising his daughter with a visit. Just in front of him was a lady that Foyle would guess to be only a few years older than himself. Her expression reminded him very much of one he often saw in Samantha's face, though the eyes were decidedly melancholy.

"Good afternoon, Mr Foyle," Reverend Stewart greeted him warmly, peering over his perfectly round spectacles, "I hope you are well? Good. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs Stewart—my wife, Gillian."

Foyle tried to keep down a mounting sensation of unease. He had stood as soon as he saw Sam's parents; now he even stumbled slightly as he moved forward around his desk to greet them.

Mrs Stewart seemed rather shy and not inclined to meet his eyes, but he could tell as soon as he shifted his gaze back to Sam's father that she was carefully scrutinizing his face.

"Forgive us for arriving without notice," said the soft-spoken vicar," but we learned rather suddenly of the death of the son of a former parishioner who lives here in Hastings. I felt it best that we visit her as soon as possible, so we decided to look in on Samantha. And Mrs Stewart has been interested in meeting you since last we spoke."

How well Foyle remembered. The way his heart had stirred with hope when Sam's father told him how much she enjoyed working with him. How carefully he had to compose his thoughts in the interest of keeping her there without revealing how much he cared for his young driver even then. When he and Sam had arrived later that day at the station to find that Reverend Stewart was there to collect his daughter, Foyle could not bear to have her leave that suddenly. Possibly he could have got one of the constables or sergeants to drive him to Graeme's, but instead he had recklessly told Sam's father that he "couldn't have her yet," and off they went.

It meant a great deal to Sam that Christopher had emphatically told her father she was important; that she was _needed._ She'd tried to hold back tears of pride as she haltingly told her boss this, fearing they might become tears of sadness any moment. Later she revealed to him that her father's own experience of helping Milner identify the Berot piece changed his mind about allowing her to stay. He had seen firsthand that it was a more important job than he had imagined, and it was probably plain to him as well that she would be deeply unhappy to leave it. Reverend Stewart also opined to Sam that both the men with whom she worked most closely were trustworthy and seemed protective of her; he was "sure she was in safe hands."

A vivid image of his young lover in his hands flitted across Foyle's mind now, and he had to dispel it rapidly as he tried surreptitiously to gulp.

* * *

><p>Sam had to remind herself to close her mouth when she finished reading the letter she had found upon stopping by Meri's house to pick up a few items for the night.<p>

_Dear Miss Stewart,_

_Thank you for attending my gala on Saturday; what a great pleasure it was to meet you. I just want to say again how glad it has made me to know that Christopher has you in his life; he is so deserving of happiness, and it is clear that you are making him very happy._

_Would you be free to join me for tea in Hastings on 8 March? I am working on a new book—a detective novel, actually!—and one of the characters is a young woman in a wartime job, getting used to the world of work and the experiences of a south coast town. I have not quite worked out whether she assists a detective, or even whether the town will be named as Hastings (though I do have another dear friend who lives here, and I visit often), but I wondered if you would mind very much my interviewing you about your job so that I might base the character in part upon you._

_I do hope your stay in London continued to be peaceful and pleasant. I have enclosed my card in case you would care to confirm by telephone._

_Very truly yours,_

_Arthur Whitehall_

She was so excited and honoured at this prospect that she could scarcely wait to tell Christopher. Gathering a nightgown and change of clothes for the following day, and glancing with a delicious shiver at the bed where she had not got enough sleep the night before, Sam clambered down the stairs.

It was dark by the time she arrived back at the station to collect Christopher, and as she hurried in to tell him her news, she thought about the morning she had been a bit late to work after her date with Tony. Where she had expected Mr Foyle to be sternly disapproving, she found he merely asked if she'd had a good time. She smiled as she remembered: then he'd given her the most sweetly conspiratorial look after asking her if _she_ wanted a cup of tea, when she really should have been the one to bring him the one he was sipping.

There was no one about; the corridor was dimly lit, but Christopher's door stood ajar and Sam sprang cheerfully into the golden light of his office, exclaiming, "Darling! Just wait until you hear—"

Samantha halted with a sharp intake of breath. _Oh, no…_

Her father and mother were standing aghast, looking from their daughter to her boss and then back again. Of all her self-conscious blushes today, this was by far the most scarlet; she could feel the heat radiating from her cheeks. For a moment Foyle was as wide-eyed as a small boy. Then he recovered sufficiently to open his mouth to request that everyone remain calm, but he didn't get the chance.

The shocked Reverend Stewart, staring at him in disbelief, spoke first.

"_Mr_ Foyle, when I decided that Samantha could stay here working with you…" He trailed off with uncharacteristic bluster, as his wife dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief (a trifle dramatically, Foyle thought).

To his surprise, it was Gillian Stewart who next spoke in a quavering voice. "This is the height of irresponsible behaviour! You as her superior have authority over an impressionable young girl… power! She will of _course_ do anything you wish!"

Sam was struggling not to tremble or let the tears in her eyes reinforce her mother's apparent opinion that she was a child. Foyle was evolving from embarrassment to annoyance. The new couple could understand that this was far from the best way to reveal to her parents that they were stepping out, but for the Stewarts to assume that he was coercing her, and that there was anything clandestine or illicit about their relationship…

He glanced down at the file on his desk and shifted it, his glowering making his eyes more steely than blue. Sam stood tentatively where she had stopped, just at his right.

Reverend Stewart fixed her with a disapproving look before looking at Foyle's stormy face. "Well? Have you any doubt that I am not leaving here without my daughter? It is clear that I cannot have her working with a man who would—"

Just at that moment Paul Milner pushed open Foyle's door and with a furrowed brow, said to his boss, "Sir. Forgive me… I came back to get my key and I… I couldn't help overhearing." He turned to Reverend Stewart, who had so impressed him with his knowledge of art and his help in solving the art theft at the Whittington Gallery in London.

Milner could see both sides of this; if Foyle and Sam had not yet told the Stewarts what had so recently transpired between them, and Sam's parents thought the relationship clandestine for some dishonourable reason, then he sympathized with that concern. But he also knew how mistaken they were.

As Milner had made his way down the station corridor toward his office and accidentally eavesdropped on the heated discussion, he decided to do something he normally would not, and interfere in something not truly his business. Mr Foyle and Sam might be a little embarrassed, but it hardly could be worse than the unjust censure they now were experiencing.

"Reverend Stewart," Paul said crisply to the older man without preamble, his eyebrow arching, "As an impartial party, allow me to explain something, if you will. Mr Foyle and Samantha have only just come to an understanding. It isn't as if their courtship has been kept a secret—"

"Then why didn't Samantha deign to inform her own parents about it?" Reverend Stewart nearly bellowed.

Christopher had had enough. He slapped the papers on his desk abruptly and fixed such a stare on Sam's father that the good vicar could scarcely see his pupils.

"I want something understood," he said quietly, but in the tone that often chilled the criminals he interrogated. "Today I asked Sam to marry me, and she accepted. I had hoped to ask you for her hand this very weekend, but the last two weeks have been exceedingly hectic ones. There is nothing dishonourable—nor has there ever been—in my attention to your daughter, and I bitterly resent your implication that Sam hasn't the good sense to make a reasoned judgement about this matter for herself."

Mrs Stewart was staring at him, shaking her head slowly as her eyes held his. "You don't understand! She has always been impulsive. You can't know her if you think she—"

"Can't _know_ her!"

Sam, Paul, and the Stewarts nearly jumped at the sudden volume of DCS Foyle's incredulous voice.

"She has driven me everywhere I have had to go for months now, she has saved me no end of trouble by being at the ready, she has made helpful observations about important cases, and she has kept me sane while I've worried myself sick about my son. We talk every day during these drives. I know what music and books she most enjoys, her favourite foods, what she'd like to wear when the clothing ration ends…" He shut his eyes.

"I _know_ she is impulsive, but I trust her to be honest when she says that she… that she loves me…" His voice broke and his eyes moved to Sam's. The look they exchanged was almost too intimate for the others to witness; all three of them cast down their gaze.

"…And that she wants to spend the rest of her life with me."

"The rest of _your_ life, you mean," Mrs Stewart retorted.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: The Crash

Author: dancesabove

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and I in no way profit from the story I've written.

Rating: T

Pairing: Samantha Stewart and Christopher Foyle

A/N: This A/U story of Sam and Mr Foyle is based on scenes from "The French Drop,""Enemy Fire," and soon, "They Fought in the Fields." I welcome your feedback.

_**So many thanks go out to my shipmates: Jewell, who wrote half of this chapter; my wonderful beta Hazeleyes (who may someday get me to remember to keep dialogue sounding like actual mid-20th century speech); and TartanLioness, Treva Rea, and Persiflage, who contribute ideas and listen to me whinge about writer's block on a regular basis!**_

Chapter Eleven

The silence in the small office was deep and powerful. Two of the room's occupants held their breath, awaiting the explosion they imagined was to come from Christopher Foyle.

Gillian Stewart stood, her face flushed a high colour and her chin held just as high.

But the explosion came from her daughter.

"_Mother!_ How could you be so cruel?" Her face red with emotion, Sam threw a distraught glance at her fiancé and fled the room. Out in the hallway Sam shoved the door with a furious motion, but realised at the last second that to slam it would make her appear childish, as if storming from the room hadn't. She caught the door at the last second.

She sighed with vigour; the violence of the attempted door slam had released some of her tension. She felt a small degree calmer. Calm enough to know that one of her parents would soon be coming after her—probably her father, if the past were any indication. She needed to hide her bag quickly; she was sure her father would be able to detect the incriminating nightie just as clearly as if it were waving its lacy hem at him and shouting, "Sin!"

The Ladies was no good; there was just a shelf where she kept a brush and some hairpins. The tea room—no, too far. Milner's office, then. The office cabinet next to the doorway had no files in it; Paul usually kept his lunch there. She knew her bag would fit, and if she couldn't retrieve the bag before Paul found it… Well, it was certainly better than either of her parents learning of the contents.

Reverend Stewart looked first at Mrs Stewart and then at Foyle. Apparently deciding that his wife could hold her own against the policeman, he quietly slipped out of the room. Gillian Stewart's gaze, like Milner's, was fixed on Foyle, who was studying the wood grain on his desktop intently.

_Smouldering,_ Milner imagined.

But when Foyle eventually looked up and met Mrs Stewart's stare, his face was filled with pain, not anger.

"Yes," he said, softly, "I will likely die before her and leave her alone at far too young an age." He glanced down, and when he looked up, his eyes were on the doorway Sam had gone through. "That is my only, _only_ regret."

Foyle took a deep breath and looked back at Sam's mother. "Mrs Stewart, as you know, there are no guarantees in this life. Samantha and I love each other, very much. I understand that you have doubts. I hope you will give us a chance to show you that our marriage will be as good for Sam as it will be for me."

Sam's mother seemed disconcerted. She had expected this man to become angry, and to issue vehement and strident protests. She not only expected it, she wished it to prove her point – he was not good enough for her Samantha.

Instead, here he was looking at her with eyes filled with anguish, and she didn't know what to say.

"I, it... it's just that Samantha is our only child, and I do worry so much…"

Mrs Stewart took a deep breath and said, "Samantha had a brother, you see—yes a brother a year and a half older than Samantha he died in his cot when he was almost six months old and I've never got over losing little Iain and I've lived too much of my life through my darling Samantha and now you, an older man, are telling me that you are taking her away from me!" She finished with another deep breath.

Both men had the identical thought: _She talks just like Sam!_

Foyle murmured, "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't know that. Sam's never mentioned it."

"My fault, I suppose. It was so painful for me to speak of it, she quickly learned not to talk about him. But, Mr Foyle, I understand you've suffered a loss, too…?"

Foyle cleared his throat, glanced at Milner, then said, "Yes. Yes, I have. My wife died of typhoid when she wasn't much older than Sam is now. I understand how difficult it is to speak of such things. _I_ don't."

"Ah, yes. I see." Mrs Stewart paused, looking tensely at her shoes. "I have been rude and I apologise. Please forgive me; I was quite overwhelmed. I can see you are a man I should have got to know better, before I passed judgement." Another long pause. "Shall we gather up Iain and Samantha, and go somewhere for tea?"

Gillian suddenly remembered there was another man in the room. She turned to him.

"And you, Mr...uhhh?"

"Milner, ma'am."

"Mr Milner, will you join us?"

"Thank you for your offer, but I'm afraid I must be getting home. Goodnight, Mrs Stewart. Sir." His polite nod included them both.

Foyle nodded his farewell, pretending not to notice the relief that crossed Milner's face as he made good his escape.

_I'm still in the fire; I can't afford to be relieved._

"Let's go and find the others, shall we?" he asked, gesturing to the door with his hand, silently indicating 'ladies first'.

* * *

><p>"Samantha." Reverend Stewart's usual soft tone was back in place. He'd already spoken her name twice, but his daughter continued to glare mutely at the wall opposite the bench where they were seated in the station corridor. "Samantha, please listen. Can you understand, darling, why your mother is so upset?"<p>

"Why _Mother_ is upset!" The young woman's eyebrows were heading for her hairline as she turned toward him in an exaggeratedly slow movement. "Seems to me you attacked Christopher just as much as she did!"

"Well, yes..." her father began, apologetically. Even without having heard Mr Foyle's halting acknowledgement of Gillian's bald-faced statement, Iain had begun to feel sympathy for the man; perhaps he'd been too hasty in accusing him. Heavens, the way he had _looked _at Samantha... any father would be happy to see that much devotion glowing in a potential son-in-law's eyes. Oh, and then there was _that;_ odd as it might feel to have a son-in-law only about seven years one's junior, Iain could not dispute that Foyle's intention was to marry Sam. And that trustworthy Sergeant Milner had explained why Sam had not let them know yet. Iain wondered whether Sam's hesitation in letting them know was from worry that her mother would have just such a reaction. He sighed.

The Reverend bent towards Sam, patting her hand. "I'm sorry, my dear. Being a parent is fraught with these mistakes, I'm afraid... we're... like a cat protecting her kittens from any outsider who comes near, sometimes."

Sam shut her eyes to keep sudden tears of relief from flowing.

He went on, "I think this was a shock to me because... well, when I talked with Mr Foyle in the autumn, I had no inkling that he... em, cared for you in such a way." He paused, thoughtful. "I suppose that probably reflects well on him; he isn't a dishonest man, but if he already felt that way then, he at least was not recklessly acting upon it..."

Sam bit her lower lip. She decided not to tell her father that Christopher had confessed to her that he had indeed been romantically interested in her even then.

Just then the door at the end of the hall shut quietly as Milner emerged from Foyle's office. "Mustn't forget my house key again," he murmured, sending a smile Sam's way that seemed to say, _Don't be worried. It's going to be all right._ Sam smiled wanly back as her father nodded to Paul. The younger man disappeared into his office, and Sam held her breath. Would he look in the cabinet where she had stashed her small suitcase?

* * *

><p>As it happened, Milner didn't open the cabinet until the following morning, when he went to put his packed lunch in it. As he had not slept well and didn't recognise the beige-and-white case, he didn't immediately associate it with the events of the previous evening until he opened it. Along with a skirt and blouse he had once seen Sam wear was a blue nightdress. Absently rubbing a bit of the shining cloth between thumb and forefinger, Paul had the small crease between his eyes that often appeared there in times of deep thought or consternation. <em>Ah, that's right—Sam had this case with her when she ran from her parents last night. She must have hid it here so they wouldn't ask her about it. <em>Part of him was amused, but a greater part was wistful... Jane had been gone for more than a month now, and he was in an odd limbo.

Paul and his wife hadn't discussed a divorce, but it was increasingly hard for him to imagine wanting to reconcile, even if Jane were to offer to try. She had been so cruel to him, at the time when he needed her most. After the long lonely near-year he had spent fighting, he would have been happy to see her old smile and feel the touch of her hand on his, let alone know again her kisses and caresses and more. But she behaved as if he had purposely brought on this injury to horrify and inconvenience her. She had not so much as pecked him on the cheek since he had returned.

Paul sighed as he thought about warm and lovely Sam. If he were free, and she were not in love with another man, would he want her? _She thought nothing of asking me to dance with her,_ he reflected now with a hint of a smile. _To her I'm not damaged goods. _He liked her so much, and objectively found her beautiful, but he didn't feel that kind of attraction somehow. Sam was like a sister, almost. He hoped she would always be a part of his life.

But, God, how he wished there could be _someone._ Someone who looked at him the way Sam looked at Mr Foyle. It had been so long. Work and life would be easier if he had the comfort of a woman in his arms.

He set the case beside his desk away from the door and wondered as he sat down how everything had gone for the couple during the conciliatory tea the previous evening.

* * *

><p>Half an hour earlier, DCS Foyle had opened his front door to his fiancée, who had come to collect him and drive him to the station. They had mutually decided to cancel the notion of spending last night together, even though the Stewarts had driven back to Lyminster after dinner and Sam had brought Christopher home. Both of them had been exhausted by their lack of sleep and the emotional turmoil of the day.<p>

Nevertheless, after pulling up to the house, they had talked for a little while, still sitting in the car. Foyle had cleared his throat, then sighed.

"Well, I think we may have won them over, but I'm very glad it was your mother, and not your father, that stayed to talk to me. _He_ might have asked me something I wouldn't want to answer..."

Sam had giggled. "Mmm. I don't think he would even wish to contemplate _that._ I'm glad we've decided on a simple wedding, so the 'white dress question' won't even be on anyone's mind."

Now Christopher smiled to think how matter-of-fact she'd been about it all. "How did you sleep, dear girl?" he asked with concern as he pulled away from their far-too-short kiss of greeting.

She hugged him. "Well enough, all things being considered," she answered wryly. "You?"

"The same." He looked into her eyes as he pulled her close again. "But I missed you."

"Mmm," she said dreamily, a minute later. "We'd better stop that, Mr Foyle, or we shall be late two days running."

He sighed and shot her a little sideways smile, reaching for his hat. "Here we go, then."

* * *

><p>"Erm... Sam?" Standing in his office doorway, Milner smiled shyly at his young colleague just as was about to follow DCS Foyle into his office.<p>

"Be with you in a tick, Sir," she told Foyle, then stepped into Sergeant Milner's room. He pushed the door nearly closed and said quietly, "Just wanted to remind you not to forget your case before you go home."

Despite her usual level of comfort with Milner, Sam could not help but blush. He had to have opened it to know it belonged to her. She gave him a little crumpled smile of embarrassment. "Thank you, Paul. Please forgive me for trespassing so baldly—it was, um, a bit of an emergency."

His warm brown eyes were reassuring as he nodded. "I quite understand." There was a slight pause until Sam chirped, "Very good, then! I _shall_ do—come for it this evening, I mean. Thank you." She turned to go.

"Sam, I wonder..." he began, his eyes on the sun-streaked floor.

She cleared her throat nervously. _Oh, dear. I do believe he is about to ask something rather personal. _But she was determined to be as supportive of him as he had been to her and Christopher, so she waited for him to lift his gaze, so that she could look him in the eye.

This increased his confidence. "I just wanted to let you know how happy I am for you and Mr Foyle. I know he probably has told you… I certainly think it is a wonderful thing. I hope I didn't speak out of turn to your father and mother last evening."

"Oh, no, Paul! You were, I truly think, a help. My father maintains his great respect for you. And my mother thought you 'a nice young man'—her very words. You mustn't worry."

"Are they... have they come around, as far as the two of you are concerned? If you don't mind my asking..." he added diffidently.

"Ohh... I think so. I believe they have a bit more pondering and considering to do about it. But Mother and Christopher had a talk after I left the office, and seemed to make peace. Well, you were there."

He nodded. "It looked a promising shift in the way things were going, but I just wanted to be sure. Things are so uncertain in these times..." his eyes grew distant.

Sam chewed her lip gently. "Paul... are things still the same at home? Jane is at her sister's?"

The way he nodded made it plain that it was a relief to have Sam asking about it. "She... doesn't come right out and say she wants to be divorced, but I think she does. I suppose I'll have to let her divorce _me,_ although..." he trailed off, his voice tight. He paused yet again, not closing the terribly private conversation. Somehow he just couldn't.

Before two nights ago, Sam might have been too afraid of indecorum to say what she said next. More earnest communication between her and Christopher had been a liberating thing, and she had a sense that Milner reluctantly was feeling envy for their greater happiness, his own loneliness more acutely thrown into relief.

"It isn't right, really. She is the one deserting," Sam stated gently, but firmly. "But however you are able to begin anew, Paul, I think would be best." She put her hand on his forearm, squeezed gently. "Please let me—us—know if ever you need to talk about it, or need testimony of some kind or other."

"You've both been so kind," Milner said wistfully.

Despite the trouble that public intimacy had wrought the evening before, Sam's first act upon entering her boss's office was to hug him tight. She would never take for granted how fortunate they were.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Their night apart had increased Christopher's and Sam's anticipation of a more relaxed one together in a larger bed, especially as each felt more rested than they had the day before. Throughout the day subtle glances and touches took on such a delicious tension that Sam was fairly trembling; Foyle smiled when he noted her drawing a deep breath as she gripped the steering wheel tightly.

At dinner the previous evening, Sam's parents' raised eyebrows and darting looks of disbelief at the newly affianced couple were rather obvious to begin with. As the conversation became less stilted and they could see the easy affection and humour with which Sam and Christopher interacted, they came to realise that it wasn't just a case of an older man wanting the beauty of a young woman's body. He hung on her every word, and by the look in her eyes and her gentle touch of his hand at one point, she appeared to be every bit as attracted to the man, despite the thinning and greying hair.

Iain and Gillian Stewart relaxed enough to make possible an actual discussion of marriage plans. The group ultimately decided that St Stephens in Lyminster would be the location, two months hence, and began to draw up lists of guests and discuss the pooling of ration coupons towards a modest reception.

At home and preparing for bed after Sam had dropped him off, Foyle had stood alone in his bedroom, reflecting that, as nerve-wracking a late afternoon and evening as it had been, it was good that her parents now knew, and that all their plans were clearer. How amazing it was to think how much his life had changed in the space of just a couple of weeks.

His tie off, pensively unbuttoning his shirt, Christopher regarded the bed where he wished Sam were waiting for him right now. It would be strange in a way, to share that bed with her; though the mattress was relatively new it was the same bedstead where Andrew had been conceived, and where for so many years he and Rosalind had loved and then slept spooned together. He shut his eyes in pain as he remembered, too, gathering his wife up carefully into his arms to take her to hospital when the doctor had determined that it might help. It hadn't. In the week of her fading away from them she had lain in Hastings Royal Infirmary, and he had slept in a chair near her.

Then, for nine years, only Christopher slept here. Once during that time, in a Bovington inn, he had held a woman through the night; he had spent a remarkably lonely day at Lyme Regis and met the equally lonely Elaine in a tearoom. Andrew had been away with his uncle and aunt and cousin, an unspoken chance for Foyle to be free of the moody youth for a long weekend. Hugh had planned to accompany him for a bit of golf and ambling and ocean swimming, but his family unexpectedly required him, and Christopher decided the change of scene, even by himself, might be enough. Afterwards Elaine and he had talked of her visiting him in Hastings, but it never had come to pass. He suspected that, despite what she had assured him was a lovely experience that one night, she had come to regret their sudden connection.

Christopher shook his head, a vision of Sam with her hair flowing across his pillow making him smile. Elaine had been in her late thirties when he was 42; the few times he had let himself speculate on his ever finding another woman, he had envisaged a widow about his age; or, if the lady were younger these days, someone about the age that Rosalind would be now, nearing 40. The difference there had been nine years, hardly the May-December difference between Sam and him. When Samantha was born, he was 25—a veteran, a husband and father, an established police officer. Rosalind had been very young when they married, it was true (or as Hugh had put it last week, "This won't be the first time you've robbed the cradle, Christopher"), but it had not seemed outrageous for him to marry a girl in her teens because Rosalind was already a woman, a painter who helped her parents with their business and looked after her brothers and could talk about books and life and love as if she were his own age.

And so it was with Sam. Foyle had met many a young woman who struck him as attractive in a remote sort of way, but they were clearly part of another generation. Girls whom he'd be inclined to treat as he might a daughter. Sweet young things. Sam was sweet, and decidedly young, but somehow not of a whole different era. Not because she was prim and old-fashioned—it was because she had an old soul and such resilience at such a young age. He still marvelled at the strength and grace she had shown under pressure, whether recovering from a bombing or resisting the supercilious threats of a Nazi sympathiser intent upon being chauffeured home.

Once in bed he had stared at the darkness and asked himself yet again if the world was right to be startled; wasn't she too young? He had told her earlier on the way home what he had said to her mother: how he worried about leaving her behind. Pulling up beside the pavement, Sam had caressed his face and looked him intently in the eyes. "I would happily trade 50 more years with any of the other boys I've cared for, if it meant only a few more with you. And I have a feeling we'll have _nearly _that together. Why, look how healthy you are!" She waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively. "What stamina..."

* * *

><p>At last the day was over and work could wait until tomorrow. Sam was readying a meal for them, having insisted he sit back in his chair and relax with a drink.<p>

Unbeknownst to her he had wandered with it towards the kitchen to watch her as she bustled about, removing buns from the oven to go with a stew she had made them.

_Look at her, with her face all flushed from bending over the cooker and her hair coming undone, and her apron askew. She's breathtaking._

Sam turned to see him leaning in the doorway and her eyes widened momentarily as she swiped a strand of damp hair from her brow. She laughed, quite unselfconsciously. "Oh, Christopher, I must look a fright!"

He was smiling as he moved closer to her, a warm, affectionate upturn of his lips that somehow blended sweetly with the look of desire in his eyes. By the time he took her in his arms, tears were forming in her eyes as she thought of how beautiful he made her feel, even when she had made no effort to appear attractive; even when she was in _dishabille._

Christopher's kiss was slow and languorous, and as his hands moved caressingly over Sam's figure, she began to wonder if they would be having their dinner before bedtime. She fumbled for the cooker dial and turned off the gas, then gave herself over to the kiss completely, her soft sigh lost in his mouth as his arms wrapped even more tightly around her. The gentle movement of his tongue along her lower lip urged her to open to him and soon he was caressing her tongue with his. Sam moaned as her arms hooked beneath his and up over his shoulders, and she pulled him even closer.

After long heavenly moments they both drew back to catch their breath, and Sam's stomach rumbled noisily in its fluttered and hungry state. The comical look on her face as they registered this was so endearing that Foyle laughed. "My poor starving Sam. It's all right—I'm hungry, too. We'll, umm… we'll get back to this a little later, hmm?"

Samantha's face lit up in happiness at his immediate understanding, and she resumed the gradual heating of the stew as he stood and they talked about the suspects in the case of the stolen jewellery.

They sat down to supper in the dining room, and just as soon as each had taken a deep whiff of the wonderfully savoury stew, they reached out at the same time for a roll, causing their fingers to entwine, much to their amusement.

Still, Sam thought with wonder, it was as if electricity arced between them every time they chanced to touch like that.

She was looking forward to the completion of their meal.

* * *

><p>Christopher stood arm-to-arm with her at the sink as she washed their dishes and handed them to him to be placed in the draining rack. He had been filling her in on how well Milner had been handling aspects of the Melcent case, and her mind returned to her conversation with Paul that morning.<p>

"I worry so much for him, at times, Christopher." Foyle felt her go still beside him and he turned to glance at her face. The look of compassion in her eyes moved him so much that his heart fairly ached with love for her.

"Because of Jane, you mean."

Sam nodded, drying her hands on the towel Foyle held before giving her full concentration to what she was saying.

"I don't think she will be coming back. It's what made me feel so fortunate this morning, when I came in. What made me want so much to hug you." She said this a little breathlessly, she was so earnest.

Christopher nodded, embracing her. "To think that you feel fortunate. _I'm_ the one who can't convince himself he's not dreaming."

He looked into her eyes. "My love," he breathed, then kissed her hard. She felt herself go beautifully weak against him as his hands explored her hips and waist and brushed the undercurve of her breasts; then he firmly grasped her upper arms and set her slightly away from him. "Bed," he said softly, and she wondered at the power of that one simple syllable in his low voice.

A lovely surge of heat made her shut her eyes tightly in anticipation as Christopher stroked up and down her arms. Then she nodded and they slowly made their way up the stairs together, a little drunkenly, pausing every few steps to kiss some more.

Foyle took her hand and led her into his room. With love in his eyes he brought them to stand exactly where they had when he had first held and kissed her.

Sam dreamily murmured his name against his lips as she tightened her arms about him and closed the space between them, revelling in the knowledge that she could be as swept away as she wished as they stood in this spot this time. This kiss, though not urgent, was building up through them like a slow, delicious fire; what began as enjoyment of each other's soft lips became deeper as they opened their mouths to each other and stroked, caressed, probed.

Sam's eyes drifted shut at the sensation of his arousal nestled in the valley between her legs. Suddenly it seemed they just couldn't get enough of each other as they pressed and moved their bodies even closer together.

By the time he drew back with a ragged sigh and slowly laid her down, she was trembling.

"Sam," he said a little shakily as he looked down upon the angel in his bed. One of the memories he'd had as he contemplated this room's history, Andrew's conception, returned to his consciousness. He sat on the edge of the mattress and stroked the hair back from her damp forehead. "I... um, went to Boots and I've got... protection if you want me to use one. We haven't really talked about..."

Involuntarily she gave him a glowing smile, examining his face. He had that darling wide-eyed look again; she thought he appeared a little awed at the notion of what might happen if they kept ignoring the notion of birth control.

"I told you that would hardly be a tragedy for me," she reminded him. "We're to be married and at some point, I'd love for us to bring a baby into the world together." She spoke more haltingly. "How do you feel about it?" She was careful to hide the hope in her eyes. She did not want to pressure him, in case he had his reservations about it.

Foyle breathed a sigh of relief. He loved and wanted Samantha Stewart so much that he would have been ready to accept any answer, any decision on her part. Did he want another child? He had never thought about it. Hadn't seemed bloody likely. But as he thought about it now, he realised he had long unconsciously known that _she_ did; her sweetness last summer toward that poor little boy Joe, and her sobs when he was killed; the no-nonsense but affectionate way she had handled her young "troops" when Foyle had made her their "captain" last autumn.

_If she would love it, then I want it. Though, if we had a baby even as early as next year, I'd still be nearly 70 when… but she never asked me, even though she wanted to marry me. She __**knows **__somehow. She trusts that I would be a good father._

Sam was watching his faraway eyes closely. "Would it keep you from the work you really want to do? What if you had a chance to—?"

"What if I'd got this post in Liverpool?" he interrupted. "Could you have gone that far from your parents and the life you are used to, here?"

"Oh, yes," she said brightly and without a moment's hesitation. "I'd like to try life in someplace new. As long as you are there, I know I should like it even more." She reached up to stroke Christopher's left temple and ear, her eyes reassuring him. "And as long as you would be happy about having a baby…"

He caught her hand and kissed her palm. "I wouldn't be _un_happy. It's all a bit overwhelming but… well, maybe I'd get it right this time. Not sure Andrew would report that I did the best of jobs."

"Oh, piffle!" Sam huffed, almost laughing. "I know you've had your little differences, but believe me, he's aware that his own behaviour leads to most of them."

"Perhaps he was just trying to gain more attention from his old father."

"Right, well, you'd best do better this time, then. And shall we get started?" She abruptly tugged at his arm and pulled him over her, nuzzling his nose as he laughed delightedly. What began as a playful tussle and a series of smiling kisses soon turned passionate and serious, and they shed their clothes with more urgency this time.

* * *

><p>Awakening in his arms in the morning darkness, Sam combed her fingers into his soft hair and held back tears of gratitude as she again watched him slumber. Christopher had worshipped her body last night as she hadn't even known a woman could be worshipped, and somehow brought her even more pleasure than their first three experiences together had. Possibly even more exciting for her, though, was to know she reciprocated. There was something quite thrilling, she reflected, about making such a reserved and quiet man get as intensely carried away as that; "still waters run deep" was certainly the case when it came to the lovemaking of her sweet Mr Foyle.<p>

_And if we do have a baby, I know he'll be a wonderful father… understanding and kind, but firm when he needs to be. Hmm. That icy stare will put paid to any __misbehaviour__, I should think!_

She tried not to giggle at that image, but her shaking half-woke him and he restlessly murmured something in his sleep.

"Shhh," she soothed. "Rest, my dearest love. So much to do today, and you need your sleep."

He held her even tighter and she sighed in contentment as she let herself drift back to rest for another hour.

TBC...


	13. Chapter 13

Title: The Crash

Author: dancesabove

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and I in no way profit from the story I've written.

Rating: T

Pairing: Samantha Stewart and Christopher Foyle

* * *

><p>Long-winded and probably unnecessary Author's Note:<p>

When I began writing this story two years ago, I never dreamed I would become stuck and find myself struggling to finish it. It was the first work of fanfiction I ever wrote, and from it I have learned that you should write the whole story and then publish it in installments. Although I've heard published authors, even of original novels, claim that they sometimes make up the story as they go along—not even sure how it will end until it does—I'm finding that awkward for me. I should have figured out my mystery and my solution and had at least a clearer outline before beginning.

_Why did I bother to put a mystery in there to solve, anyway?_ you may well ask. _Isn't the point of this the romance and sex between the characters you wanted to pair up?_ Well, yes… but one of the things that makes Christopher's and Sam's relationship on the show particularly lovely (even though nothing romantic ever happens in canon) is the way he quickly begins to trust and admire her and rely upon her help in their work. So I wanted to illustrate that and get them fully immersed in some case, and make that a parallel aspect.

Writing the mushy stuff came easily to me, but I've never even _tried_ to write a mystery before! I made it up as I went along, and if perceptive readers ultimately find plot holes in _The Crash,_ that'll be the reason why. I was eager to get the story out there and find out how readers felt about it; I figured that would be all the impetus I'd need to keep rolling.

I've made some delightful and brilliant friends through my interest in _Foyle's War_ and in fanfiction. I used to despair because I wanted some beautiful erotica to read, but found porn dull. Fanfiction seems to be where most of the female writers who love romantic erotica dwell. There are writers of fanfiction who are so wonderful at what they do that I'd rather read their work than original works published in books. Among them are the writers who have contributed significantly to this story.

If hazeleyes571 (who has been the primary beta for this story all along, and whom I totally idolize) had not taken the 300 or so words of this chapter that I'd managed to squeeze out, and finished the chapter for me, I am not sure I could have moved forward for _another _several months. In reading some marvelous work by other writers on this and other sites, I have experienced the frustration of becoming enmeshed in an enjoyable and suspenseful story, then finding that it was left unfinished years ago. I promise you this: THAT will not happen. I'll finish _The Crash. _

I love it and I'm very proud of it, and why I've been so blocked, I can't really say. But hey, with the new series of _Foyle's War_ beginning in March in the UK, we've probably got a fresh wave of fans coming along in only a few months' time! Some of them will go back to Series 1 and 2 and say to themselves, "Golly, what a _spark_ there is between Mr. Foyle and Sam. I wonder if anyone has ever written any fanfic about them?"

Gotta get ready!

Thanks again, hazeleyes. And thanks GiuliettaC for additional inspired ideas.

—dancesabove

* * *

><p>Chapter Thirteen<p>

Bea Stanley was just wrapping a towel around her freshly washed hair when she heard the knocker rattle on the front door. She contemplated ignoring it, but then reasoned that it might be Mrs Cohouris coming round to collect the rent. Still in her terry dressing gown, she opened the door to find a tall and quite good-looking young man waiting there.

"Miss Stanley?" he enquired, his prominent eyebrows raising minutely at her state of partial undress, but his look businesslike. "Sergeant Milner, Hastings Police. Might I have a word?"

She gestured him in, her appraising smile faltering as he walked into her sitting room with a slight stiffness of gait. But as he turned back with a polite smile, meant to be reassuring, she was impressed again by his handsome features. As she took a seat on the sofa, she pretended to accidentally expose a bit of leg through the opening of the skirt of the dressing gown.

With an amused world-weariness, Foyle had already indicated to Milner what he might encounter in the young woman, so Milner kept his eyes on the small notebook he carried to remind him of what he wished to ask Melcent's former girlfriend.

"I'm here to ask a few questions about the men working with Rhys Melcent. I believe you told DCS Foyle that the leader of the group was Roke Hechinger, is that correct?"

Bea suddenly looked both nervous and defensive, as if she had belatedly realised that Roke might not be happy with her bandying his name about. She snatched at her cigarettes and lit one quickly to give her time to think. She dragged on it heavily before turning her head to exhale the smoke to one side. She propped her elbow on her hip and looked at Milner.

"Might have, might not. What's it to you?"

Milner's gaze pierced hers momentarily and the woman felt a slight chill riffle down her spine. The man had such distinctive eyebrows; they almost met as one and had such a long and gentle arc that they reminded her of a seagull in flight.

"As you know, we are looking into Rhys' disappearance. In the course of our enquiries, it has come to light that Hechinger and Rhys had more than one heated conversation about _you."_

"What of it? I can't help it if more than one chap finds me attractive, can I?"

Milner looked sceptical.

"Well, trying to make one boyfriend jealous of another hardly seems like you had nothing to do with it."

Bea couldn't hide her surprise.

_How the hell did they find out...?_

Milner kept his smile inside, but he knew he had scored with his remark. He kept his expression bland.

"Any idea where Hechinger was on the night Rhys disappeared?"

Bea nearly dropped her cigarette. It was only now dawning on her that Roke might know more about what was going on than he was letting on. In which case, her duty—to herself—was clear.

"You'd better be asking him that. I'm sure I don't know nothing."

Milner didn't bother mentioning that she was employing a double negative; he didn't want her taxing the few brain cells she possessed.

"Thank you, I plan to."

He stood to leave and Bea was relieved.

"Dunno why you're making all this fuss, Rhys is bound to turn up sooner or later."

Milner's quiet voice was a marked contrast to her somewhat coarse tone.

"But he has, Miss Stanley. My apologies, I thought you knew. His body was pulled from the sea a half mile from Hastings."

Bea sat down abruptly, and took another drag on her cigarette. Even Milner could see that her hands were shaking. He had no compunction about using her shock to his advantage.

"Where will I find Hechinger right now?"

Bea's look was poisonous. She viciously stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray, making it clear that she would rather it was Milner's face.

"At work, where else?"

* * *

><p>Making her way home that evening, Sam reflected that she still had not told her fiancé about the exciting prospect of her interviews with his friend Arthur Whitehall. She smiled to herself, wondering if the detective of Mr Whitehall's novel would be modeled on his friend Foyle, and just how Christopher would feel about that.<p>

She was about to put her key in the door when she became aware of a commotion on the other side of the road. Dropping her bag of shopping by the step, Sam turned to see what was going on. A woman appeared to be having an argument with a man, and to Sam's horrified surprise, the man slapped the woman's face and knocked her to the ground. Sam was halfway across the road and shouting before she had even realised it.

"_Hey!_ Stop that!"

The man fled down the alleyway between two of the houses, leaving the woman on the ground. Sam hurried to help the woman get to her feet.

"Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

The woman had a nasty black eye as well as a reddened cheek. She looked sullen but oddly triumphant as Sam helped her up. The mixed expression and the knowledge that the woman must have got the black eye earlier for it to be so obvious already made Sam hesitate briefly; then in a flash she realised that she knew who the woman was. Recognition came too late to help her though, as the attacker who had appeared to flee had done no such thing, and grabbed her now. Sam struggled for all she was worth, but with both Bea Stanley and Roke Hechinger holding her tight, she had no chance.

Sam opened her mouth to scream, but Hechinger stuffed a filthy rag in her mouth as they dragged her into the alley. The stunned young woman was slammed up against the wall, and a forearm rested against her throat as a knife, small and deadly, was moved into her line of vision.

"Now, missy, you have two choices, and I don't really care which you choose. Either you walk or we carry you. Now, I don't fancy carrying you, even if you are only a little thing, because I don't want blood on my clothes. Understand?"

Wide-eyed, Sam nodded. Walk or be stabbed. She wondered, with mounting horror, whether this was the knife that had killed Rhys.

Bea hissed from the alley's entrance, reminding Hechinger to hurry.

The sneering young man eased off the pressure and "accidentally" allowed his empty hand to grope Sam's breast as he pulled her upright. He laughed at the fury he could see in her eyes as he tied her hands together.

"I think we understand each other very well. Come on."

Through a series of back alleys and old smuggler lanes, Sam was hustled along until they reached Marine Parade, where there was a lorry parked.

After quickly scouting the area for potential witnesses, Hechinger gestured with the knife and Sam obediently climbed in the cab as best she could. Bea climbed in after her, and Hechinger swiftly moved around to get in the driver's seat.

Less than a minute later there was nothing but the smell of diesel fumes to say anyone had been there at all.

* * *

><p>Foyle's telephone rang just as he was on his way out of the door. He hesitated about answering it as he had a new-found appreciation of 'home time' since he knew that Sam would be waiting for him. His conscience got the better of him though, and he returned to his desk.<p>

"Foyle."

He listened and began to frown.

"Yes, hello, Merivale, what can I do for you...? No, I'm sorry, Sam has already left. About an hour ago. She said that she had some shopping to do and didn't want to be late."

Foyle listened some more, feeling a growing sense of alarm.

"No, of course you were right to call me. It's probably nothing, and Sam will be home soon. I'll walk round to yours and see if I can find her for you. Probably got chatting in the shops, or something. Sit tight, and I'll be there shortly."

Foyle dropped the phone on its cradle and grabbed his hat and coat again. His pace was brisk as he headed for Milner's office. He was relieved to see that the younger man hadn't left yet.

"Good, you're still here..."

"Problem?"

Foyle stood in the doorway, frowning as if his mind were already out of the building.

"Not sure. Sam's landlady has just telephoned to say that Sam hasn't got home yet. Probably nothing, but with this smuggling thing going on, I don't want to take any chances."

Milner stood, already reaching for his coat.

* * *

><p>Their pace was brisk despite Milner's stiff gait. Neither man was inclined to chat, each lost in his own thoughts, and they reached Merivale's house in short order.<p>

Before they had even reached the door, Foyle knew that Sam was in trouble. His heart and throat suddenly constricted, so that his voice sounded oddly tight.

"Milner. Look."

He reached into the small hedge next to the path and pulled out a small string bag containing a few items wrapped in white shop paper. He knew that the bag was Sam's.

Merivale opened the front door, clearly waiting for the policeman's arrival, just as Foyle straightened up. She, too, recognised the bag.

"Mr Foyle?"

Without anything further, Merivale conveyed in her tone and expression the fear that all three of them felt.

What had happened to Sam? 

TBC...


	14. Chapter 14

Heartfelt thanks to hazeleyes and GiuC for their contributions.

* * *

><p>Chapter Fourteen<p>

Sam sat in utter blackness. So devoid of light was this musty basement room that she could see only strange repeating circles of wan light before her eyes, like the rings that spread in a pond when one threw in a stone. And it was silent. A sharp, unmuffled silence that made her fearful thoughts seem like echoing screams inside her head.

She supposed that what Roke Hechinger and Bea Stanley had done to her might be described as torture, although mainly they had terrorized her rather than inflicting pain per se. True, her scalp and neck smarted even now from the many times her hair had been pulled and her head yanked back, but at least no one had cut her. She shuddered. The real torture just now was her terrible fear that their plan would come to fruition and Christopher or Paul would be harmed in some way when one or the other, or both, came looking for her.

It was clear from what her captors had said that she was the bait and the ransom for Christopher, so that Roke and Bea could force him to aid or protect their illicit operation, contingent upon her safety. But once they had succeeded, what would be their next course of action? It was increasingly obvious to Sam that they had killed Rhys Melcent because he knew what they were planning and intended to go to the police.

And suppose Christopher did something courageously desperate and was hurt by them, or _worse_? Her eyes filled with tears again.

"Stop it!" she commanded herself firmly. Her ears rang at the unexpected sound, after so many hours of silence. Unbelievably, she had actually slept—she couldn't be sure how long—but the darkness in this windowless lair made it impossible to know how much time had passed since she'd been thrown in here.

_You have to sort something out. You have to consider how to be ready for whatever might happen; for any chance to…_

She moved her legs and tried to stretch away their stiffness. At least she had not been tied up; if Bea came alone to check up on her, she might be able to overpower the girl. Not usually one given to violence, Samantha could nevertheless cheerfully kick that trollop senseless at this point, recalling the way she'd spoken about her and Christopher.

"Oh, 'e'll come looking for 'er, right enough. _Sweet_ on 'er —plain as the nose on yer face." The woman had spoken with dripping scorn, abandoning her earlier attempts to hide the broadness of her speech. "And 'er on _'im._ Spread yer legs for 'im yet, 'ave ya, dearie?" And she laughed cruelly when Sam flushed scarlet and squeezed her eyes tight shut.

"Thought as much," Bea smirked.

"The lucky bastard!" Roke observed slyly with mock wonder. "'Ow's an old bugger like that rate with a spring chicken like you?"

It had taxed Sam's self-control to prevent herself from speaking up in their defence. From protesting that it was the furthest thing from sordid or temporary.

_Yes, _she'd thought in answer to Bea's disgusting question. _Yes, I __**have.**_ _Because I belong to him body and soul; because I love him, and I'm going to be his wife. He has more integrity and fortitude in his little finger than you have in the whole of your miserable body._

She knew better than to feed their prurient interest, though. It would not have made a bit of difference. Even if Christopher had felt only an employer's sense of duty towards her he would come after her, and her kidnappers knew for certain that he had that—whatever else they did or didn't know.

What if Roke were the one to come in? He hadn't any sense of decency or respect towards women to which Sam might appeal. She felt her stomach lurch as she imagined herself flirting or implying that she might go further if he'd let her go. Roke took every opportunity to be fresh, although usually in a sneaky way when Bea's back was turned.

* * *

><p>As Milner told his boss about his interview with Beatrix Stanley, Foyle began to piece together what probably had transpired.<p>

_I let Sam take a full part in this case... I let them see that she was integral to it, and I probably let them see that I care about her. So they took her. If anything happens to her..._

His throat constricted as he contemplated worst scenarios, his blue eyes set into hardened fury. He could voice none of this to Milner, but he also forced himself not to let emotion hamper the investigation. The exercise of unraveling the evidence continued in his head.

If it were black market activity, it would make sense for it to be somewhere along the harbour, and, he suspected, not far from Morehouse Haulage. Hastings seafront wasn't large, but they were going to have to canvass the area, and he would need a team of men to cover more ground in a short space of time.

Sam had endeared herself to most of the staff at the station, and whether they thought there was anything "going on" between her and their boss, she was still one of "them". So Foyle was surprised, but shouldn't have been, at the arrival of off-duty staff in addition to those on duty, who turned out to look for their missing colleague.

With so many men looking, it was in a gratifying short time that Foyle was alerted to suspicious activity in one of the store huts a short distance from The Stade. Old fishermen huts, used to store equipment, spares and tools, they were usually empty after dusk.

Milner thanked the constable who had alerted them, and he and Foyle got as close as they could without garnering any attention. Milner pointed and whispered.

"There's a light in the window. It's very faint, but there's usually no one here after dark. What do you think, sir?"

The sotto voce response was quick.

"I think it looks very promising."

* * *

><p>Sam had no experience of fending off men like Hechinger. At worst, a pushy soldier at a dance, perhaps, and usually in company of his mates exerting moderating influence. How would one deal with determined, forcible attentions? She bit her lip and reasoned that her only possible weapon was distraction. Move his interest to other things and keep it there.<p>

Her train of thought was interrupted as the door flew open and the object of her worry walked into her place of confinement.

"Missed me, darlin'?" taunted Roke. "Come to keep ya company."

"Perfectly fine without you." Sam didn't meet his eyes, but felt him drawing closer. A hand closed on her hair and pulled her head back, forcing her to look up at his eyes.

"You'd better hope that lover-boy's inclined to be reasonable," hissed Roke. "Or else I might not be responsible for me actions." He leant forward, trailing his mouth up the side of her face and to her ear. Sam sat immobile, frozen with a mixture of disgust and fear. She'd fight. She couldn't acquiesce, she decided. Not to this animal. She flinched away from him, irritably.

Roke laughed.

* * *

><p>Foyle caught the smell of smoke only a second before he saw the momentary glow of a cigarette tip, and he pulled Milner down before the lookout spotted him.<p>

They waited for the guard to move around the corner out of sight before hurrying to the window.

Through the grimy curtain Foyle could see the girl on the mattress and the man sitting in a chair at the table, his head on his arms as he slept.

There was no sign of Sam.

Mindful of the guard's imminent return, the two men retreated to a safe distance before discussing tactics.

Sam's absence from the building worried Foyle. If they rushed the place and anyone was killed, they might never find her. He said as much to Milner, who agreed.

The two men retreated back further from the hut until they could talk without fear of discovery.

Waiting 'it' out to follow Roke or the Stanley woman in the hope that one of them would lead them to Sam was one of two options.

Foyle was desperate enough to go with Option Two, after a brief conference with Milner. The younger man nodded once after his boss had outlined his plan, but he was clearly unhappy.

Foyle couldn't help that.

He stood up and brushed his coat down, before strolling casually towards the hut. He waited for the lookout to reappear from his circuit.

When he was sure he had the guard's notice, Foyle gestured to the door of the hut.

"Tell Hechinger that I wish to speak with him."

The stunned man recovered quickly enough to register the mildly voiced command, but stood his ground.

"Don't know whatcha talkin' about, mate. Now clear orf before I make ya!"

Foyle looked at the ground briefly before he sighed.

"Tell Hechinger that DCS Foyle wishes to speak with him. He is expecting me, so I suggest you hurry up."

A good eight inches taller than Foyle and at least forty pounds heavier, the guard would normally have punched first and asked questions later, but something in the calm menace of the man in front of him gave him pause. The fact that the copper appeared to be expected _and_ knew the boss's name was another hint that he should refer this business up the chain.

"Wait 'ere, and don't move."

Foyle pursed his lips at the glaring redundancy, but remained where he was while the guard entered the shed. He reappeared moments later and nodded his head towards the open door.

"In 'ere, an' look sharp."

Foyle moved past the fish-aroma'd giant and was finally face to face with Hechinger.

Hechinger smiled nastily, feeling he had the upper hand.

"Well, well, Detective Foyle. You've got stones to turn up on yer jack, I'll give yer that much."

Hechinger indicated with a nod that the guard should leave and resume his watch. Bea Stanley was nowhere in sight, so Foyle assumed that she was in another room or the place had a back door.

"Where is my driver?"

Hechinger leered, all but licking his lips. Foyle was revolted at the thought of what this animal had put Sam through, but he shoved those unhelpful thoughts aside – for now.

"Your _tart, _you mean? Oh, we've got her someplace safe, don't yer worry. I suppose you'd like to see her. But we've got some things we need to discuss first."

"Then talk." Foyle said succinctly, hatred shining from narrowed eyes.

TBC...


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

My fondest gratitude and admiration for my co-writers, GiuliettaC and hazeleyes571. If I do say so, we make a great team!

* * *

><p>Sam sank onto the concrete floor, hard and damp though it was, and lost her battle to hold back tears of helpless rage and terror. Exhausted, she rested her head on the seat of a ragged armchair. The last time Roke had come alone to see her, he had slid a grubby hand up her leg under her skirt, so she now doubted she would get out of this lair without some degree of molestation.<p>

Her tears were noiseless, so she froze as she detected a sound. _Was that—?_

She strained her ears for further sound. _Yes,_ someone was coming down the sand-dusted steps. She almost sobbed at the peculiar relief she felt when it turned out to be Bea Stanley.

"Shift yourself, bitch. Don't keep me waiting," spat the green-eyed woman. Sam scrambled to her feet, dusting off her uniform skirt in unconscious habit.

"That's right, get yerself all prettied up. About to see your fancy man. 'E's 'ere to rescue 'is lady fair!" Bea's voice dripped sarcasm, mixing with a hollow, ominous tone that made Sam's stomach turn.

Though smaller in stature than Sam, Bea was surprisingly strong and managed to hustle her darkness-dazed hostage along a corridor and up some dimly lit stairs. Sam contemplated an attempt to overpower her escort, but feared there would be repercussions for Christopher if she didn't turn up wherever-on-earth she was being led.

Bea herded her roughly through a large crate-filled room strung with fishing apparatus and lit by a single bare bulb in one corner. Just as Sam's bloodshot eyes were finally becoming acclimatised to some degree of light, both women were plunged back into barely moonlit darkness as they stumbled from a rotting doorway towards one of the huts of The Stade. They rounded the corner of the wooden building, and, in the less-than-a-second it took for Bea to hurl her into Roke's grasp, Sam glimpsed Christopher's face. In his clear eyes she saw a complex blend of anger, anxiety, calculation… and the merest flicker of something else that was there just for her. She heard it as sure as a voice.

_I'll get you out of here, Sam. Be absolutely sure of it._

She was flooded with relief to see that he was unharmed, although she was niggled with consternation that he stood apparently alone, ready (she could only imagine) to bargain for her safety in some way with Hechinger.

"As I was telling _Daddy,_ here," Hechinger sneered as he strong-armed Sam so that her back was pulled up against his front, her body bowed slightly forward, "all we need 'im to do is make one simple phone call for us; tell the harbour police he's got 'is eye on a black market shipment to recover, and they needn't head it off. Long as he does what 'e's told, you get to keep yer brains inside yer skull."

And with that he lifted a stubby pistol to nestle against Sam's ear. She was astounded at her own calm; she didn't make a sound. This was just a bad dream. _I've drifted off again,_ she thought. Sam bit her lip as she felt the evidence of Hechinger's sick excitement pressing into her. She closed her eyes and swallowed, tears of anger, and now fear, rising once again. _Nothing to endanger Christopher_, she thought, _on no account do anything stupid._

Roke hissed into her ear. "Would you credit it, darlin'? We invited him all polite to come and see you in your comfy room, and he insists we make you come _all_ the way out here to 'im. It ain't 'ardly right to fetch a _lady _out at night." He slid his hand up over her ribcage to rest beneath her breast, his eyes challenging Foyle.

Banks of clouds drifted clear of the moon. Foyle was absolutely still and white as wax in the moonlight, but his stare was unflinching. This was precisely what he had known would happen when he required the sight of a safe Sam in exchange for their demands; this was Option Two. He and Milner had discussed it as the search party got underway, and on the surface it was simple—simple, but risky.

"No strike without my signal," Foyle had told Milner. "I'll make no move to do their bidding until I see Sam unharmed in front of me. Then the bargaining begins. There may be a chance to get to Hechinger without risking Sam. I shall be the judge of that. _If _that opportunity arises—and _only_ then—you and the others take the gang. No four-five-fives to be deployed _unless_ you see my signal: you'll see me touch a button on my waistcoat."

"So, Foyle," Roke's tone was as insolent as the hand he idly ran across Sam's torso. He teased her ear with the pistol. "Seen enough of 'er, 'ave ya? Not as much as you're used to seein', by all accounts. But she's still squirmin', ain't she?"

Foyle's hand moved slowly up to rub at his brow as if in thought, before dropping to rest on the top button of his waistcoat.

Roke continued with the taunt. "You should know that feelin', eh? The squirmin'? Lively enough for ya, is she? Now off you trot to make that phone call for us. I'll keep 'er nice and warm for ya till you come back." He sniggered at his own lethal wit, and slid the pistol out of Sam's ear for a second to reach up and scratch the side of his nose with the barrel.

Quick as lightning, Foyle's hand darted from his waistcoat to his left armpit. From the periphery of her vision, Sam saw Foyle's move and scraped the heel of her shoe sharply down the inside of Roke's leg. He flinched from the unexpected pain, and in that instant Foyle completed drawing the Webley from its holster and fired with unerring precision, hitting Roke's forearm, knocking the gun clear out of his hand.

Sam elbowed Roke sharply in the ribs for good measure as she broke away. All at once and from every direction (or so it seemed), a dozen uniformed officers appeared. Among them was Milner, also brandishing a Webley. He fired a single shot into the air. "No one moves or they'll be joining Hechinger!"

Hechinger, indeed, was writhing on the ground, unsure which part of his injured self to clutch. Screams from behind the hut indicated that the uniforms had apprehended Bea.

Foyle stepped forwards to receive Samantha as she flew into his arms, and he wrapped his left arm round her, still vigilant though, with the Webley raised to tackle any residual trouble. Sam's arms snaked under his jacket and clung to his torso. She could feel his heart beating rapidly beneath her embrace, and laid her head in relief upon his shoulder, stifling sobs of shock.

"Area secured, sir." Milner's voice was calm as he surveyed the scene. The moon, which had crept out earlier to illuminate proceedings, revealed a scene of narrowly averted mayhem. Eight or nine men were lined up facing the warehouse wall, some of them on their knees, groaning in pain.

Foyle tucked his chin in to focus on the top of Sam's head and spoke very softly, for her ears alone. "Did he hurt you, darling? Did he... touch you?"

Sam shook her head, but he couldn't let it go just yet.

"You would... tell me if he did?"

"I think... he would have done... eventually. But you came before he got around to it. Oh, God! I was so afraid that he… I don't know what I would have done. It would have been unbearable. And I was terrified he'd harm you if you came for me…" Sam screwed her eyes up at the horror of the image. "Please take me home. I can't bear it here a moment longer."

Foyle turned to locate Brooke, who was still wide-eyed and speechless at the speed with which the criminals had been subdued.

"Is that enough _action_ for you, Brooke? For out in the sticks?" Foyle let a beat pass. "Please bring the car. I need to get Miss Stewart home."

DCS Foyle watched Brooke withdraw to do as bidden. For once, his chirpy sergeant seemed to have lost the power of speech. Not of the generation to have seen active service in The Great War, Brooke would not be comfortable around such weaponry, but both Foyle and Milner, as veterans, were firearms-trained, with access to Webleys under the normal police restrictions. Foyle had been top of his marksman's class, and if ever a situation had called for arming themselves against, and to prevent, possible harm, it was a hostage situation among cutthroat smugglers of profitable black market goods. Permission to use firearms had been relatively straightforward to obtain. Foyle had reasoned Hechinger would expect him to have backup, but it was doubtful that the crook would count on his having a gun. That, indeed, had been Hechinger's mistake, and his own misfortune.

* * *

><p>Once they were safely in the car, Foyle felt Sam's body start to shake. Without a glance at Milner on his other side, he gathered her into his arms. "My dear, dear girl. My strong, courageous girl."<p>

And Brookie glanced in the rear-view mirror in time to see his normally reserved boss pressing small kisses to his fiancée's temple and along her jawline between urgent, hushed endearments. Tears sprang unbidden to the sergeant's eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

Thank you, GiuC!

* * *

><p>Chapter Sixteen<p>

Christopher sat with his left elbow perched on the back of the settee, his head propped on his hand, anxiously examining Samantha. Her still-dull eyes gazed unseeingly at the fire burning in the hearth. She had been just as quiet and diffident throughout this evening as she had the night before, and now that two days had elapsed since her rescue, he was increasingly worried about her state of mind.

Softly he caressed the back of her hand with his thumb, and she squeezed his fingers in appreciation, but still seemed distant from him. Most alarming of all was her lack of interest in the tea and strawberry cakes that sat on the tray before them—the latter a gift from the vastly relieved Merivale. Except for a visit from her concerned landlady and another from Mrs Stewart, Sam had declined to mix with other people, and stayed as close by Foyle's side as she could. Her nights were spent wrapped in his embrace, but she was having great difficulty sleeping without nightmares.

_Wonder if I should call that psychiatrist who helped us solve the Bradford case last year._

Foyle's own reactions to Hechinger certainly made it difficult for him to be objective…

* * *

><p>"<em>You killed Melcent, didn't you?" Foyle paced slowly around the wide table in the interrogation room, head inclined, hands deep in his pockets. The room doubled as a storage lockup for the men, and Foyle paused to stare at the vast tallboy, his back to Roke Hechinger. By rights, he should be examining the man's face as he heard his answers, but it was a struggle to bring himself even to look at Hechinger in the bright fluorescent lighting from the corridor outside.<em>

_Hechinger responded with a scowl._

_Foyle wheeled with unexpected speed and snapped into a brittle posture, fixing his suspect with a flinty glare. "Rhys threatened to tell the police about your scheme because you wouldn't let him leave the gang."_

_Something flickered through Roke's dark eyes that told the detective he had hit the nail on the head, but for all that his expression had betrayed him, Hechinger continued to be intractable under questioning._

Throughout the lengthy interrogation, Foyle had struggled to control his personal rage at the man. Hechinger's complete lack of remorse was predictable, but the situation was exacerbated by his fondness for alluding to Samantha as "your tart" and otherwise referring to her with lascivious disrespect. Foyle's blood ran cold on several occasions. It was to his credit that his outward demeanour remained calm, but when a hiatus in the questioning gave him cause to leave the room, the evidence of his fury was all too clear: his left hand had been clenched so tightly into a fist that, when he unfolded the fingers, the palm showed slight puncture-wounds made by his fingernails. Foyle leant his head back against the wall in the corridor and composed himself with difficulty.

It was then that Milner had brought him news of Bea's confession, and the statement she had made in return for a promise of relative leniency. Foyle had read the document in silence before thanking Milner and returning to the interrogation room, where Brooke was standing guard over the prisoner.

It took Foyle very little time to make it clear to Hechinger the damaging nature of the evidence in his possession. In a rage the hoodlum had rushed him, yelling obscenities about women in general, and Beatrix and Samantha in particular—in retrospect exactly what the DCS needed as catharsis for his private animosity. His army training in hand-to-hand combat spun to the fore without a second thought, with the result that Roke ended up unconscious on the floor at Foyle's feet. Foyle shook out his knuckles while Milner and Brooke exchanged raised-eyebrow looks and knelt to gather up the reprobate. Foyle spoke one word before he left the room: "Contemptible."

* * *

><p>"Sam," Christopher now said softly. "My love, please look at me."<p>

She turned her head and tried to muster up a smile, but tears immediately filled her eyes and she curled up against him, burrowing into his shoulder.

"I thought I was so strong and clever," she sighed, "but now all I can do is worry that I'll never have the courage to help you with cases again... and that..." Her breath hitched. "…that... _other_ things will never be the same..."

Foyle heaved a painful sigh. He had certainly thought more than twice about how involved he should be letting Sam become in dangerous investigations; of course she had no formal police training and, resilient though she had proven to be, she could not be expected to take in her stride some of what he and Milner, veterans of war and of police work, had seen.

"Sam," he said, gently holding her head between his hands and looking deep into her eyes. "You _are_ strong and clever. And brave. But I should never have exposed you to such a perilous situation. You haven't the proper training, or experience. In spite of which, you handled yourself in the most admirable way you could have, and it isn't any wonder that you're shell-shocked now. Just give yourself time..." His firm tone faltered into sudden hoarseness as he stroked her silken hair. "My darling, when I think how close I came to _losing_ you. I can barely forgive myself."

Sam so wanted to kiss him. She so wanted to feel his lips on hers and his arms holding her tightly to him... but fear of any robust physical contact held her back. She knew that Christopher could sense this, as he had made no attempt to do anything but hold her tenderly. She knew he was awaiting some indication from her that she would be ready for such attentions. When would her mind stop lurching to those hideous perversions of intimacy that she'd been forced by Roke Hechinger to endure?

For his part, Christopher was torn between a need to show her physical affection as a means of eradicating memories of Hechinger, and a fear of intensifying those same memories. He ached to restore the intimate balance between them, but was determined to let Samantha set the pace. Knowing that the bastard Roke had traumatised her (despite her shuddery assurances that little more than touching had occurred), he reasoned Sam would be repulsed by sexual overtures from any man, just now.

What was going on in Sam's mind was even more complex still, and she was at a loss to make sense of it all. She looked despairingly at Christopher's furrowed brow.

"Christopher, there's really nothing to forgive. I've pressed and pressed for you to make me part of what you do, and since you began to let me… well, I've never been happier. But… for now, for tonight, anyway, I think I should go home and try to sort out my feelings. Would you mind, awfully?"

Christopher was momentarily seized by a gripping anxiety that she was drawing away from him, but he could detect in her eyes a glimmer of something that told him she just needed time alone. _Things would be all right,_ he tried to reassure himself.

"Will you promise me you'll try to rest? Tell Meri to wake you if you begin to have a bad dream?"

Sam nodded, and did her best to force a smile—for him.

* * *

><p>TBC...<p> 


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Without GiuC and hazeleyes, there'd be no chapter!**

* * *

><p>Chapter Seventeen<p>

Sam loved Meri's raspberry tarts even more than her delicious strawberry cakes, but once again she was gazing at a tempting treat with indifferent eyes. Meri leaned forward to pour out their tea as they sat in her front room. She seemed to understand that, despite the late hour, Samantha needed to talk. Mr Foyle had encouraged Sam to take the police car home that evening, insisting that her absolute safety was far more important than petrol rationing, and that she could come and fetch him in the morning.

"Meri, it's been such an awful time. Christopher has been so understanding, but I had to get away to… well, to think—to find out how I feel and why."

"My dear, if I can help in any way, I will," Meri reassured her with a motherly pat on the arm. "You've been very brave. Perhaps this need for quiet time is a delayed reaction to the shock."

Sam screwed her eyes tight, fighting back tears. "Oh Meri, I was _terrified_."

"Of course you were, dear. That awful man, and what he could have done to you."

"Oh, no! Not for myself… although I was disgusted and angry at the thought that he might force me… but…" she trailed off.

"But what, my dear?" Meri's kindly eyes encouraged Sam to look at her.

Sam took a deep breath. "Honestly? My real fear was for what it might do to Christopher to know that he had."

Meri studied her intently. "You were afraid he wouldn't… feel the same about you afterwards?"

Sam's eyes went wide with distress. "No! Not that! Never for an instant, Meri. At first I was frightened he'd do something silly and risk his life to rescue me. Then, when Hechinger began to… threaten me with his attentions… I was possessed with a fear that…" she paused and bit her lip. "That Christopher would kill him in cold blood if he found out." Tears spilled from her eyes, and her voice broke into uncontrolled sobs. "I was afraid that he would go to prison, for a long, long time. And so I made a promise to myself that if it happened, I would never tell a soul."

"My poor lamb!" Meri took Sam in her arms, and hugged her fiercely. "Is that what this is all about? Poor Christopher, too. He must be out of his mind with worry. You didn't tell him any of this, did you?"

Sam shook her head. "I just said… that I needed time to sort out my feelings."

"And have you, Sam?" Meri asked her gently.

"Not… very successfully, if I'm honest. I'm ashamed to talk to you about it. It's… it's so personal."

Meri folded her hands in her lap, and wondered how she might elicit some confidences from her young friend. "Dear girl," she said, "these days, the only outlets for my passions are art and music, but I was young myself once. The sexual imperative in human beings is strong, and yet the nuances that distinguish us as individuals are apt to make us diffident… even make us judge our own tastes harshly. What can you possibly tell me that will make me think less of you?"

Sam swallowed. "I, um, I'm not a virgin, Meri."

Meri gazed at her with eyes as soft and green as meadow moss. "My dear, you don't imagine I would judge you over such a thing, when my own philosophy of love is one of freedom to enjoy and give, as one's passion dictates."

"I've _been_ with him, you realise? With Christopher."

Meri gave a kindly chuckle. "Samantha, what else would you do? As a man, he is entirely irresistible. Good-looking, charming, honourable and immensely clever. Most importantly, it's clear that he adores you."

Sam shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Meri, when we're together, I like him to… I like him to be…" —her voice fell to a whisper—"_forceful._"

Meri tucked her lips between her teeth to stop her mouth from turning up at the sides, and contemplated the young woman. Then she said, "Samantha, do you feel that's somehow… wrong?"

Sam stared into her lap. "I didn't think so, before. But ever since Roke Hechinger, I've felt as if it somehow might be… wrong. And if I ever looked into Christopher's eyes and saw that awful man staring back at me… I think it would be the end for us. So now I'm just afraid to… to be close with him, in case."

Merivale looked thoughtful for a moment, pinching her bottom lip a little between her teeth. "I have a feeling that your Mr Foyle will not only know just how to bring things back into balance for both of you, but that he will take his cues from you towards any way that you want… _things_… to go."

The younger woman looked at her gratefully and nodded slowly. Her eyes lost focus as she slipped into a reverie, reviewing the few times she had been with Christopher… his masterful blending of tenderness with passion. Nothing she had shared with him bore any resemblance to the stomach-turning moments of unwanted advances she had been forced to endure from Hechinger. They were different species of men… if Roke Hechinger could even be thus described.

Sam stood.

"Thank you, Meri. You're too right, and I've been a fool. I should…" She glanced anxiously at the door, and Meri smiled her understanding.

* * *

><p>Though it was by now 11 o'clock, Christopher was pacing restlessly around the sitting room, a glass of whisky in his hand, when his telephone rang.<p>

"Hullo; Foyle."

"Mr Foyle, it is Merivale."

"Ah! Yesss, hello, Meri. Everything all right with Sam?"

"We've had a little talk and I think she is feeling much clearer about a number of things."

His deep sigh came down the line as clear as a bell. Meri seemed unperturbed by the long pause before he replied, "Thank you, Merivale. I do appreciate your talking with her."

His listener understood how difficult it was for him to contemplate just what Sam had needed to discuss.

"Oh, really there is nothing I can tell her that she doesn't already know perfectly well herself, now she has thought it through."

"Hmm."

Merivale's voice was briskly kind.

"Mr Foyle, she is on her way home. To you."

* * *

><p>By the time they had finished their brief conversation, Foyle could hear the Wolseley changing gear on the way up the hill, and he was standing at the door when Sam got out of the car, still wearing her uniform, her little overnight bag in hand, and dashed up the front steps.<p>

"It's me! I'm back!" she announced breathlessly.

"So I see. And you're, um, feeling…" Foyle inclined his head tentatively, "… better in yourself, my love?" His eyes sought hers and found instead two intense, dark pools that spoke desire. "Sam?"

Still in her hat and coat, she encircled his neck with her arms and kissed him full on the mouth, her momentum shoving him back against the wall. Instinctively he pulled her close, responding immediately to her passion. Sam melted against him and he instantly felt himself grow hard against her softness.

_Too much, too soon_. Foyle got a grip on nature, and removed her to a distance he could deal with, holding her gently at arm's length. "This, erm, we… Sam, please don't, unless you… If we start, I can't…" He closed his eyes tight and took a steadying breath. "Sam. Tell me what you want?"

"Unreservedly, you. I want _you_. I trust you, and I love you, and I want your strength to own me… and to…" Sam swallowed, "to wipe _him_—that _thing—_from my mind."

Foyle ran a hand through his hair, and squeezed tight against the pricking sensation starting up behind his eyes. "My darling, come here. Anything, just say the word." He folded her to him. "You tell me how you want it to be; I'll make it so." When, after a moment, Sam was still silent, he took her chin in his hand and tilted it upwards. Then he bent and covered her lips with his own.

Sam moaned in quiet appeal, so Christopher deepened the kiss, his tongue playing gently with hers as his hands roamed along her curves. He drew back and examined her face, wondering how to gauge the extent of her fragility, but she looked back at him with bashful hunger before leaning forward again to murmur in his ear, "You know, darling, I've always dreamed about you taking this uniform off me."

He shut his eyes to fix the tempting image in his mind, and embraced her tightly, whispering, "Same dream I've had, then."

Her ardour took him, frankly, by surprise; it had been his plan, as they resumed their intimacy, to take things as slowly and as gently as needs be, but his lovely young driver seemed instead to burn now with the same urgency he remembered from their feverish interlude at the inn after Arthur Whitehall's soiree. The agonising thought that he could have lost her love—and lost this kind of physical joy—sent a momentary chill along his spine, but happily he wasn't being given much chance at the moment to think. Sam was already busily undoing his tie and buttons, tugging him towards the stairs, and with a determination that left his body breathless with desire, but his mind uncomfortably wary.

He moved his hands to stay hers, still busy at his neck. "Sam," he cautioned, "go carefully. Pace yourself. I'll try to read your every wish, but don't… please don't hide behind bravado." He added, now looking down at her hands, grasped in his own, "If at any time you feel… hemmed in, be open with me. Don't conceal it for my sake."

Sam gazed hungrily at his lips. "If there's one thing," she breathed, "I'm certain of, it's that I want you deep inside me in the next five minutes. No reasoning, no arguments, no questions. I thought he'd rape me and you'd kill him and I'd lose you. There. I've said it now. You had to know. The fear was: losing you. That he'd be the instrument that took you from me. And I would have been as good as dead without you. So now I need… I _need_ you to make me feel alive again, complete again."

Foyle's face was suddenly drained of blood. He nodded, breathing unsteadily. "Without a second thought," he told her dully, "I would have done exactly as you said. Oh, God. I would have put him in the ground."

Sam reached up to stroke his face. "So, you see? Why I was so… ?"

His jaw clamped shut. Abruptly, he took her by the hand and started up the stairs, pulling her after him.


	18. Chapter 18

The Crash

Chapter Eighteen

The urgent quality of Sam's kisses made Christopher crazed with need for her, but he still had a wariness born of his concern for her emotional veerings of the last few days. As tempting as her fervour was, he thought it possible that she was not as ready for passion as she believed. What if she were to have flashbacks to that awful night? Foyle was determined to slow her down and take things gently, at least initially.

As they stood near the bed he pulled back from her, softly placing one finger on her lips. "Shhh. My darling. Wait, Sam. Slow down."

His delay perplexed her, but his crooked little smile still warmed her heart.

"I want to savour having you back in my arms," he whispered, his lips barely separated from hers. "I want to..." He kissed her lightly on the mouth, at its edge, then at the junction of her earlobe.

As brushing and soft as his touches were, each one set her afire, and she responded with tiny pleading sounds that had the same incendiary effect on him. Still he kept himself in trembling reserve, each of his caresses long and slow and gentle, until Sam was both utterly relaxed and suffused with need.

And now, the uniform. He had been surprised to find that his fantasy of divesting Sam of her khaki uniform was also a desire of hers. Knowing he was pleasing her as well made his actions ever so much sweeter.

He drew back and loosened her tie, then released the wide military belt from its buckle and slid her tunic from her shoulders. The buttons of her crisp shirt came next. She smiled tremulously at him, working eagerly to release his shirt buttons too, longing to feel the wiry hairs of his chest against her breasts.

Christopher half-shut his eyes in a seethingly attractive way and pulled her in by the waist so that he could unfasten her skirt's waistband and tug it to her hips and down. Even in MTC-issue lisle stockings her slender legs excited him, and he unfastened and peeled them slowly off, never taking his eyes from hers.

When at last they had shed all their clothing and were standing close together, he gently slid his hands on each side of her long neck and worked his fingers behind it, stroking just behind each ear with his thumbs and watching with delight as her eyes fluttered shut with pleasure. She in turn caressed the muscles of his arms and the line of his hip, letting her hand wander lower just for the joy of eliciting his gasp as she took a firm hold on the proof of his desire for her.

"Sam..." he breathed, and she kissed his lips with even more abandon, seeming to signal to him that she wanted him to take her in that same spirit. Still holding the back of her neck, he decisively guided her towards the bed, and she shivered. It was just such purposefulness that she loved and wanted to associate only with him—the excitement of his becoming carried away, which she knew would never lead to anything she didn't want or couldn't handle.

As she lay down and moved up the mattress to welcome him into her arms, he knelt and held her arms down, his eyes misty with want. His kisses were thrillingly hard, eliciting a long sweet moan from deep in her throat. Their attention to each other by now had the quality of gentle wrestling as they moved together, sweating despite the late February chill of the bedroom.

Whenever Christopher thought about the ways they had yet to add to their repertoire of lovemaking, he was confident that she would enjoy it all, but tonight it was important to him to keep them face-to-face. He knew she was not put off by the tempestuousness with which he surged within her as he bent to softly bite her shoulder and she tightened around him. Even as he moved his body over hers in a slow rhythm he alternated between gazing deeply into her eyes and kissing her tenderly, until she was moved nearly to tears at how well he could fulfil her longings while still maintaining the strong message of protective love.

He slid himself against her body, arching his lower back and closing his eyes in rapture at the power of the sensation flooding through him. Sam was thrilled at the low sounds of pleasure he involuntarily made as he pinned her wrists and filled her again and again, the silkiness of his curls and the petal-like softness of his ears at odds with the masculine forcefulness with which he was possessing her.

Sometimes Samantha was overcome by the study in contrasts that was her fiancé; the way that he was both reticent and emotional, both angry and patient, both perplexed and knowing. Here and now he blended tender care with a fervour so intense that she felt a frisson of alarm—and yet craved it. It puzzled her; but she didn't want to think about it just now. She didn't want to think; she wanted only to feel: to experience the weight of him above and along her; the scent of his evaporating shaving lotion; the warmth and sweetness of his mouth; the low urgent growl from his throat.

She opened her eyes and found his, and yet another paradox was his expression there—the look of determination and concerned adoration.

He heard her feminine coos of ecstasy and rocked harder, so only a few more seconds passed before she was volubly crying out at her release, her arms tightly wound about his shoulders as if she were a drowning woman and he her saviour.

* * *

><p>As they drove along a sun-dappled country lane the next day, Foyle for the first time worried at the distraction of working with Sam—not only because his mind wandered back to the previous night so often that he realised he wasn't thinking through the details of a case, but also because he found himself almost tearful at the marvel of her love and her generosity in giving herself so utterly to him.<p>

After her own pinnacle she had tightly grasped him with her body and continued her verbal indications of arousal until he could hold back no longer…

_I'd be a fool to think that we can keep on like this without some sort of consequence..._

"Sam, my love, please stop the car. We need to talk."

Sam glanced left, to where her lover sat, then redirected her gaze forwards, searching for a place to pull over.

Foyle spoke before she had stopped the car entirely. "Samantha…" He hesitated as she turned her dark eyes upon him after she'd stopped the Wolseley safely. Christopher lost his train of thought under her questioning gaze, and had to look away to begin again. "Sam. Last night… last night was wonderful. To have you back with me, with me… _properly,_ as it were..."

There was another pause in which he closed his eyes and quirked a tiny smile at Sam, acknowledging that his idea of her "being with him properly" might not be everyone else's idea of "proper". Then he once again mustered his thoughts to his intent. "But I do worry that it comes at a price. Sam, we've discussed, erm, the consequences of our, erm, actions, but we're still not taking precautions. I want what you want, love, but what I _don't_ want is to cause you any embarrassment, or give anyone a reason to look at you with anything but the highest regard."

Sam was looking at him intently, and waited until she was satisfied that he had finished before she spoke, half-teasingly. "Dear Christopher, my gallant knight, we've talked about a child before, and you weren't opposed—has something happened since to change your mind?

"No, not in the least. A dark-eyed little lady, full of mischief, would be lovely… once we're married."

"Or a serious little boy with blue eyes and curly hair," Sam rejoindered with a smile. "I really don't think we should fret about _consequences._As we've been painfully reminded in the last few days, nothing in this life is certain. We'll be married in less than six weeks now, and if our first child arrives slightly early, everyone..." Here Sam's voice cracked playfully, "…will rejoice in God's miracle and be glad."

Foyle basked in Samantha's gentle gaze and felt a wave of love overtake him. He looked at her with admiration over a teasing smile and asked in amusement, "Our _first _child? Just how many do you plan for us to have?"


	19. Chapter 19

Title: The Crash

Author: dancesabove

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and I in no way profit from the story I've written.

Rating: T

Pairing: Samantha Stewart and Christopher Foyle

A/N: Grateful thanks to GiuliettaC, who wrote a section of the story and was a brilliant beta besides. 

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><p>Chapter Nineteen<p>

April 1941

A shared sense of bleakness pervaded the car as Sam drove Foyle and Milner to investigate a downed enemy plane at the outskirts of Goudhurst. The bombing last night had rattled all of them, and not only was the smell of cordite still hanging in the air, but the day was cold—and in that humid way that put the chill right into the bones, especially when a rather pale sun crept behind the clouds and parts of the sky showed a deep slate grey. It just didn't feel like spring, they agreed. Adding to all this, six roadblocks had hampered their progress.

They had received word from a somewhat short-staffed Home Guard battalion that a German airman who'd tried to parachute out of a plane had met a grisly fate when his chute did not open. Sam's stomach twisted faintly as she envisaged the investigation scene, but she tried to steel herself.

_I should get used to such things._

She had been suffering from a kind of tetchy frustration about what she felt was her lack of meaningful helpfulness to her fiancé in their professional efforts; Christopher had not been inclined to involve her quite so much in cases—undoubtedly a residual effect of the terror of their recent experience.

So when the kindly Home Guard captain (also a vicar, his collar indicated) advised her to stay back while Foyle and Milner took a look at the dead man, her sense of uselessness was only compounded.

Despite a comradely and empathetic pat on the shoulder from Milner, Sam turned back to the car feeling empty and agitated. Even the prospect of her wedding in only two weeks was causing her slightly more tension than comfort at the moment.

Shifting in the driver's seat, Sam turned her eyes from the waving grass out of the passenger side of the car to the group of men up the gentle hill to her right. Christopher knelt to examine the unfortunate German more closely.

She thought back to a few weeks before, and her initial interview with Arthur Whitehall, Christopher's author friend. Mr Whitehall had decided that tea would not afford them quite enough time for their discussion—or perhaps he'd just kindly decided to make more of an occasion out of things, as a greater treat for 'Christopher's dear young lady'—so it was over an elegant dinner that they had conversed.

When Sam had shared with Foyle the happy news of her invitation to work with Arthur Whitehall on his book, he had been very encouraging. Secretly he hoped it would distract her from wanting to be quite so involved in cases, after the Hechinger incident. Though she had proven herself level-headed and capable—just as she had during his near-loss of her at Bexhill— _this_ near-loss episode had naturally worked its way much deeper under his skin.

For his part, Arthur Whitehall certainly had been impressed by her account of the whole terrifying experience with Hechinger. Sam had told him somewhat breathlessly about it, trying not to over-dramatise in any way, but once again finding herself in awe of her fiancé's bravery and cunning in dealing with the situation. Arthur reinforced what Christopher always said about it: that her own cool-headedness and quick thinking had played just as great a part; a part that synchronised perfectly with Foyle's.

Thinking back, Sam had found her interview with Arthur charming. In particular, how supportive he had been of their forthcoming wedding plans—though it had saddened her to discover in turn that Mr Whitehall didn't dare live openly with the young man he cared about.

"Just to feel I can talk about him with Christopher and with you is a great solace, Samantha," Arthur had told her with a sad little smile.

She'd received an especially warm welcome from the writer, in the little seafront restaurant down by the esplanade. His dapper dress reminded her so very much of Christopher, but Arthur's manner was somehow softer, and his cadences of speech more—Sam grasped for the term—more... musical? Sam tried not to appear rude by peering _too_ closely as he reached across their secluded table to offer her the bread-basket. But did he actually _moisturise_ his face and hands? The light whiff of Icilma Cream was unmistakeable.

At any rate, Arthur Whitehall had taken a definite shine to Sam. Over their jam roly-poly—which, Sam noted, Arthur poked at with a look of pained distaste, then pushed aside—she felt enough at ease to talk about the rocky road that she and Christopher had travelled; the uncharitable opinions they had had to weather on the way.

Discerning Sam's barely disguised interest in the abandoned contents of his pudding-dish, Arthur eased it towards her with his little-fingertip. "There now, Samantha dear," he smiled, "I'm sure you'll do this justice more than I. It does me good to see a hearty appetite." Pleasure shone in his face. "So like my Martin!"

"Your—um—Martin?" Sam inquired happily, through a half-eaten mouthful of stodge.

"My Martin." Arthur reached inside his wallet and withdrew a photograph. He slid it across the crisp damask cloth before her, his little finger crooked in something of a curlicue.

"My dear young friend. Flies _rings_ round Jerry for a fortnight, then races home to me and sleeps for days." His expression wavered between pride and sadness. "Wakes up for meals," he added, with a weary twinkle.

Sam finished swallowing and squinted at the picture. The young man could have been another Andrew. Same RAF blues. Same cheeky smile. Same dark, wavy hair. Same cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers.

Arthur's eyelids flickered as if he hovered on the edge of sleep. His hand closed over hers and squeezed. "Love, my dear, is age-agnostic. Marry your Christopher. Defy all prejudice and wagging tongues—your union will be a happy one. I know your man—his honour and compassion. I only wish my own attachment were allowed to breathe in freedom and be blessed by God, as yours will be."

_Honour and compassion._ In two words, Arthur had summed up her fiancé.

She watched her Christopher with Milner from a distance now. Two quiet, fair-minded men who spent their working lives dealing with the aftermath of wickedness and human frailty. Why was she so eager to engage herself in the misery of it?

Sam took a deep breath. The lingering smell of explosives had dispersed. A ray of sun peeped out from behind the clouds and caught the chrome around the headlamps of the Wolseley.

_Why was she so hungry for involvement?_

Because humanity was all there was. You waded in, rolled up your sleeves, and jolly well got on with it.

Sam climbed out of the car and drew herself up straight, planting her feet wide apart, and waited for instructions. 

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><p>She didn't have too long to wait. Soon afterward Foyle and Milner were called to the scene of an apparent gunshot suicide at a nearby farm, and as she emerged from the car, Samantha caught a glimpse of the Land Girls who worked there. Their cold, distrustful stares made her a shade uncomfortable, but remembering her new resolve, she tilted her chin upward and summoned as friendly a smile for them as she could muster.<p>

It proved to be a long and very full day.

Hugh Jackson's body had been found shortly before, by his son Thomas. More blood, of course, so Sam was banished to the car again. She stood there like a spare part, twiddling her thumbs behind her back under the hostile gaze of the women, while Christopher and Milner completed their inspection of the corpse.

Eventually Christopher strolled back into the yard with Milner and began to milk the farm's other residents for information. In addition to Land Girls Joan Dillon and Rose Henshall, who had worked closely with Jackson in his fields, Sam saw him speak briefly with Barbara Hicks, a Women's Land Army employee who was temporarily billeted at the Jackson Farm cottage with the two younger women.

Her job, they learned, was to survey the woodlands and choose young trees suitable for turning into poles for use as roadblocks and pit props. If Sam thought _her_ reception from the ladies had been a trifle short of warm, it was positively cordial in comparison to Christopher's first attempt at a polite questioning of Barbara. Though an outwardly attractive woman, probably not yet forty, she was snippy and barely cooperative when he tried to ascertain her role at the farm, and when he asked what she knew about Jackson, she answered peevishly that he was "not too different from most men: rude, lazy, lascivious, and ignorant."

From her position as observer, Sam found that this older woman's challenging manner with Christopher made her rather uncomfortable, but she couldn't quite pinpoint why. After all, Christopher seemed to take it all in his stride with his normal, unruffled manner. There was, though, Sam fancied, a spark of dry humour in the way that he responded to the woman's barbs. _One of his coping strategies with difficult people,_ she concluded, shrugging off the _frisson_ of unease. 

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><p>Later, with the corpse removed from the scene, Foyle smiled grimly as he dug a pistol bullet from the wall behind Jackson's chair. After a closer inspection of the room in which Jackson had been shot, the incident was beginning to look much more like murder than suicide. He and Milner shared a flicker of camaraderie as they congratulated themselves on an astute deduction, thinking about an officious POW camp director who had mistaken them for "amateur sleuths" when he came to collect the German pilots.<p>

Close on the heels of their discovery, Samantha arrived to report that Barbara Hicks had come upon a surviving Luftwaffe parachutist, his chute suspended in a huge tree, so that he'd been spared impact. Once again they found themselves pursuing their investigations in a field, but this time, there being no blood on the scene, Sam was able to indulge her curiosity and keep close observation on proceedings.

The German's pistol was missing. She heard Christopher and Milner speculating as to whether Barbara Hicks might have taken it earlier that morning. Hicks claimed to have known the murder victim only a few days, but her newly formed opinion of him had been virulent enough, after all…

Sam watched with interest from her vantage point, as Christopher took Barbara Hicks aside and questioned her further.

In spite of the woman's rudeness and standoffishness, Foyle found himself impressed by her memory for detail and knowledge of nature, as she enthusiastically mentioned her early morning explorations of a badger sett, and praised by Latin name the beautiful old tree that had broken the German airman's fall.

What an enigma this woman was, he thought, with her bright eyes accompanying yet more of her cut-and-dried negative observations about men.

By early afternoon, as the policemen wrestled with the Luftwaffe lieutenant's connection to the downed plane and other parachutist, it became apparent to Foyle that the trio would need more time there in Goudhurst next day.

There was nothing else for it, he decided. He tasked Sam with finding them an overnight billet near the farm. 

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><p>Foyle blinked as he looked about Jackson's small bedroom, wondering why the man's killer would stage a death to look like suicide. Both Rose Henshall and the neighboring farmer, Curling, had told him that Hugh Jackson's wife had run off with a farm hand years before, leading to Jackson's steady and destructive drinking.<p>

_No note…_ Foyle turned his scrutinising gaze from the roll top desk towards the small bedside table, which bore a photograph of a dark-haired, happy-looking young woman holding a baby. He moved closer to the bed and lifted its counterpane. A lustrous piece of fabric caught his eye, tucked beneath the coverlet. Just as he registered it as an item of women's underwear, he heard Sam's footfalls at the top of the stairs. She peered in.

"Just to let you know I'm back, dear," she said quietly, aware that he probably was deep in thought about the case.

"Thank you." He tugged the bit of lingerie from the bed covers just as Sam stepped down into the murky little room.

"Ooh!" she exclaimed softly at the sight of the glossy beige brassiere, and came forward to finger it, though she still wore her driving gloves. "Silk!"

"Mr Jackson's?" Christopher asked wryly. Standing close beside him, Sam emitted a little huff of amusement. "Or… was he surprisingly popular with the Land Girls?"

Lifting the bra to inspect the cup size, Sam made an expert assessment. "Well… Rose or Barbara's, I'd say. Too large for Joan…" she darted her eyes playfully at his. "Or for me, for that matter."

His eyes made the briefest possible skate over her chest. His response was sombre but mischievous: "Mmm. Good things come in small packages, don't y'know?"

The cumulative weariness of his day hadn't really hit Foyle until then. But at that moment, Sam gave forth with one of her blushing little explosions of laughter. And suddenly a warming sensation of comfort spread through him. All tension in him dissolved under the reassurance of Sam's laughter—the same sputtery laugh he'd heard from her in another life, that time when she'd apologised to him for getting mixed up with Andrew (long before Christopher and Sam fully understood how they felt about each other), and he had declared, jokingly, that the Foyles always _had_ been hard to resist.

Foyle's sharp ears listened for evidence of anyone else in the house. Hearing none, he pulled his fiancée close. "Sam," he told her softly, "can hardly wait for the 27th." He buried his nose in the soft upsweep of hair just above her ear, then let his lips wander along her jawline as she closed her eyes tightly and breathed deeply, enraptured. His voice was hoarse. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Feel the same," she gasped, as his heated kiss moved to her neck. "Only—"

He raised his head abruptly, his eyes searching hers. He was not without his nighttime fears sometimes; that she would come to her senses over the difference in their ages. That she would perceive something lacking in their interactions as a result.

Heedless of his darkest fears, Sam gave him a sheepish little smile. "It's just that I want to do _more_ to help you—in our work, I mean. Something a bit more useful than just… hawking a brassiere around and asking whose it is." She smirked, but then brought serious, entreating eyes to rest upon his face. "I know you worry, Christopher… but since the kidnapping, I've felt… less as if I am a useful sort of person to have on the team."

Foyle's eyes closed tightly, batting aside his demons to offer her the reassurance that she craved. "Sam. I would say that you are an _invaluable_ part of the team. But, you're right. I've been so… fearful. _Please_ don't think of it as a lack of confidence in you." Christopher stroked her back, then gazed into her face with a rapt expression of wonder.

"You know… sometimes I'm in awe of you. Your… spirit, your courage. If I lost you…" he drew her into his arms again, so she wouldn't see his tears, and Samantha had to hold back her own as she clutched his shoulders.

"You'll never be rid of me," she teased him in a wavering voice, "because _I _don't know what I'd do without _you._ So you're quite stuck, aren't you? Poor ole Christopher."

A minute later she drew a deep breath and dusted down the front of her uniform. "Have you had enough for today?" she asked, nodding to indicate the room.

"Haven't you?"

"Certainly."

He followed her out to the landing, smiling with what he was sure was not the most professional of besotted expressions. 

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><p>Barely concealing her excitement to have discovered just the place for them to billet, Sam drove the men there, suppressing a chortle at their mystified faces.<p>

"What is this?" Christopher asked her as they got out of the car and headed towards a welcoming red brick house just across the road from the village church.

"Hotels and pubs are full sir, billeting troops," she began.

"But what is _this_?" Milner echoed, as they made their way towards the front door.

"It's basic," Sam went on evasively, one eyebrow raised, "it's clean, and there's hot water. And the food's tip-top."

Paul was just starting to give her a sceptical "just-what-have-you-got-us-into-Sam" look when they heard the buzzing voices and clatter of tableware in an adjoining room.

"What is it?" Foyle asked again, removing his hat. He felt slight impatience with Sam's officious coyness, at the same time that he was amused by it.

"It's the Women's Land Army hostel," Sam announced proudly over her shoulder as she led them into a cosy dining area. To the throwback sound of a tinkling upright on which "Daisy Bell" was being played, about a dozen women were seated around a long table, enjoying what appeared to be an eye-poppingly generous spread.

The supervisor of the household, Mrs McGee, stepped forward to greet the men, and declared with a spark of mischief that there was a "separate little bit for you boys to sleep in"—so it appeared that Sam had indeed chosen well on their behalf. The expression on Milner's face had changed to one of a man impressed—and every bit as intrigued as Sam obviously was by the promise of good and plentiful food. And they were just in time for dinner!

Sam was in ecstasies over the dishes on offer as the men sat down with her and the Women's Land Army workers at their hostel table:

"Roast beef! Roast potatoes, Yorkshire… and you'll never guess what's for pudding!"

But Milner was no longer looking at the food. "What?" he asked absently.

"Apple crumble…"

Christopher smiled to himself in satisfaction. Sam was back on form.

Indeed she was. Both appetite _and_ powers of observation. Paul's eyes, Sam noticed, were held captive by the large blue eyes of a fair-haired young woman sitting opposite them. 

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><p><em>TBC… with romance for dear Paul!<em>


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: The timing of this is a little funny, given Wolseley37's wonderful fic, but I assure you, it's a complete coincidence! Workin' hard to sort out Foyle and Sam… and Milner, too. Thanks as always to GiuliettaC.

Meanwhile, my good friend nocturnefaure would like you to know that she will be posting a new M-rated fic shortly. So reset your filters to "Rating: All" and be on the lookout!

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty<strong>

Since the morning that Paul Milner had stood holding Sam's overnight case, sadly musing as he gazed at her satin nightdress, he had begun to make some progress in extricating himself from the stagnation of his marriage.

The hurt he had initially felt, at his wife's clear distaste for him in any physical capacity, had gradually faded since Jane had decamped to her sister's in Wales. Gradually the truth had dawned: Jane was not intending to return. Rather than intensifying that hollow ache around his heart he'd felt in those first weeks, living in the house alone had granted him some measure of relief. In fact, he'd soon decided loneliness was preferable to rejection.

Paul threw himself so faithfully and energetically into his work that even Mr Foyle occasionally crooked an eyebrow of surprise at how much time he was spending on certain cases "in his own time." While the older man was not given to prying into the private affairs of others, he invited Milner out every second week or so for a pint and lent a careful ear, not asking anything, but sending forth a silent message of support.

Now, in the convivial warmth of the Land Army hostel, Foyle observed his sergeant quite overcome by the bounty spread before him—and that bounty clearly wasn't just the quality and quantity of food. He found himself both heartened and amused by Milner's wide-eyed preoccupation with the rosy-cheeked blonde casting him shy glances across the table.

Demure as her large pale eyes were, they were underpinned by a somewhat saucy smile, and the overall effect was one of innocent flirtatiousness that seemed to Foyle to hold his sergeant in a thrall of silence. Foyle smirked, recalling his own utter inability to speak, the very first time he'd looked up into the face of the wondrous Sam. It wasn't so much a question of spectacular beauty as of a kind of energy that emanated from her. To him, Samantha was the sun.

"Good after... evening," Milner stumbled, and offered a tentative smile as he took in the warmth of the girl's expression. She seemed to be enjoying the very timbre of his voice, and turned imperceptibly with a slight eyebrow-raise at Sam, as if to say, "Your friend is lovely."

Sam's mouth was blissfully full of Yorkshire pudding, and she struggled now to concentrate on swallowing as she watched the interest escalate between her colleague and the pert young cherub with the blue-green eyes. Her gaze darted from one to the other and then back again. Neither party seemed about to take the conversation a step further, and so she took the situation into her own hands.

Resolutely gulping down her mouthful, Sam addressed the girl.

"Hello! I'm Samantha Stewart, and this is Paul Milner. We're here on an investigation. What's your name? Which farm are you billeted at?"

The young Land Girl smiled, impressed at Sam's cut-glass accent and her thoroughly no-nonsense way of speaking.

"I'm Emily… Emily Forsythe. We're—she tipped her head to indicate the ginger-haired girl beside her—working at Munson's down the Brick Kiln Lane."

"And what do they farm there?" Sam asked with genuine interest, after a glance in Paul's direction confirmed that he was still paralysed at the sight of beauty.

"Oh, we've got sheep to tend, and there are potatoes and some dairy cows. Nothing out of the ordinary!" Emily laughed. Although the family we're with is jolly kind to us. Three little children who get in the way a bit, but they couldn't be sweeter. I get climbed over a lot!"

Milner found his tongue. "Not, er, from round here, I take it?"

"Not hardly! I'm from Croydon," giggled Emily. "Before I came down here, I thought milk came from bottles, and I'd never even _seen_ a sheep, let alone"—she wrinkled her nose—"smelt one. They don't half whiff in hot weather. Are you a real policeman, Mr Milner? You look too nice to be a copper."

The tall young man with the intense stare had the most fascinating eyebrows, thought Emily. They were exceptionally long and narrow, arcing gracefully over eyes that often squinted almost imperceptibly, making it seem that he was carefully taking you in. At the same time the eyes were a touch haunted. Had the man been favouring one leg as the trio of police staff entered the room? Had he been injured?

Emily felt impelled to ask him all manner of questions about himself, but she was altogether too well-bred to dive in on such brief acquaintance. So she bit back her curiosity, and prepared to let him set the pace.

She was soon rewarded with a soft, good-natured chuckle from the object of her interest. "What makes you think that coppers are all nasty, Miss Forsythe? And yes, I really am. A policeman," he hastened to add. "Detective Sergeant, actually. Pleased to meet you."

A polite but comfortable conversation took off between the two, greatly aided by the presence of Paul's colleagues, ever-alert to fill shy silences when they arose. By the time the farm workers began to rise and the dinner hour was drawing to a close, both Emily and Paul were hoping there might soon be a chance for the two of them to dine in each other's company again—and maybe even move to first-name terms. 

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><p>"I think Paul's smitten," whispered Sam to Christopher on their way upstairs, keys to their rooms in hand. "I so hope they hit it off. He needs some happiness."<p>

"You won't hear any arguments from me," Christopher answered fondly as they reached the landing. He bent to check the label on his key. "Here. This is me, I think. In Number 4. And yours is...?"

"Seventeen," sighed Sam. They really _do_ keep the boys separate, don't they? I'm fairly sure mine must be on the floor above. That's thirteen creaky stairs between us..." she added ruefully, then whispered, feeling for his hand, "Should I just step inside your room so we can—you know—say goodnight?"

Christopher glanced around them uncomfortably. The staircase and the landing were quite narrow. There were several rooms to either side of his, and who knew whether anyone might be behind a door, listening in?

"Better not, my love. Paul and I are here on sufferance. Wouldn't want to risk a hoo-hah with Mrs McGee and The Management."

Seeing Sam's bravely disappointed look, he relented just a little, raising his hand to brush her cheek and softly smoothing a tendril of coppery hair from her temple with a thumb. Just as he bent to bestow at least a chaste goodnight kiss (dangerous as he knew this was, given his poor track record of keeping kisses with Sam chaste), the sound of footfalls on the stairs below caused him to check himself and abruptly step away.

"Be ready at seven, Miss Stewart," he told her succinctly, his voice more gruff than he had meant to sound. He turned from Sam just in the nick of time before a woman rounded the corner of the staircase and looked up to face them. It was Barbara Hicks.

Foyle heaved an inward sigh of deep relief. It would have undermined his questioning of Hicks, he reasoned, had he given her cause to list among his automatic male offences the added sin of lusting after a much younger woman.

Sam's back had been towards the staircase; therefore she had no way of knowing Christopher's retreat from her had not been prompted by Miss Hicks particularly. And though his brusque withdrawal would have been a reasonable reaction to discovery, no matter _who_ had turned up on the stairs, Sam caught the idea that Christopher was somehow specially wedded to Miss Hicks's good opinion. And in her churned-up, disappointed state, that notion rankled.

Fervently hoping the blush of anger on her cheeks and rush of moisture to her eyes did not betray her, Sam lowered her head and mumbled "Right you are, Sir," nodding briefly to Barbara Hicks before climbing the second flight of stairs. Behind her she could hear the woman's surprised voice challenging Christopher about his presence in the hostel, and his patient, dry, half-humorous response.

Finding Number 17 at last, Sam struggled to insert her key into the keyhole, a tearful pique misting her ability to focus. When at last she'd managed to unlock the door, she plunged face-first onto the narrow mattress, giving free rein to her pent-up emotions and letting flow frustrated tears.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: **

Some sections of the dialogue are taken directly from "They Fought in the Fields" (S3E3).

'Barnet' (short for Barnet Fair) is Cockney rhyming slang for 'hair'.

A nice, long chapter to make up for the long wait you've endured. This story **will** be finished! My beta GiuliettaC has done so much that I think she deserves total writer's credit for this chapter.

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><p><strong>Chapter 21<strong>

Sam awoke in very low spirits the next morning, after rather a fitful night. She breakfasted early and alone—far earlier than necessary for her seven o'clock appointment with Christopher.

By the time they strolled into the communal refectory, she had already brushed the crumbs from her uniform and wandered outside, both to clear her head and to check the Wolseley over to make ready for their ride out to the Jackson farm.

Foyle looked across the breakfast table at Milner and asked, "Seen Sam?"

"No, Sir. Think we should check her room?"

The DCS checked his watch. "Give her a couple of minutes." There were still 10 minutes until the appointed time, and he was confident that she'd present herself. Sam never let him down.

At five-to, he began to worry. He'd just risen, preparing to disappear upstairs after her, when Sam appeared in the outside doorway, hands behind back, feet planted in the "at ease" position. Her gaze was stony.

With puckered brows Foyle picked his way between the refectory tables, approaching her with hat in hand. "Sam? Everything all right?"

"Perfectly all right, Sir." Sam's gaze was directed slightly to his left in a deliberate avoidance of his eyes.

Foyle blinked at the formality. He saw no reason for it; the only person within earshot was Milner, who had risen from the breakfast table at the same time, and followed him to the door. In spite of Milner's proximity, he would have asked her to tell him what was the matter, but Milner's voice usurped the moment.

"Sam?" he inquired pleasantly. "All present and correct?"

"Tickety-boo, Paul!" Her tone was noticeably warmer, and garnished with a smile.

Foyle's lips formed a moue of puzzlement, but with the pair of them already striking up a warm conversation, from which Sam was apparently content to see him excluded, he saw no alternative but to linger, hands in pockets until such time as she turned and made her way towards the car, Milner close behind her.

For her part, Sam was grateful for Paul's presence. She was eager to get on with the day without too much opportunity to dwell on the events that had upset her the previous evening. But a nagging sense of being less valued than she hoped still plagued her as they drove towards the farm. On the way she felt Christopher's eyes drift right to examine her profile on numerous occasions; still, she declined to meet his gaze.

Nor was her creeping sense of inadequacy aided by the hostile attitude of the young women employed at the farm. Joan Dillon in particular seemed to regard her as some variety of pampered princess, demonstrating all the airs of gentry, whilst Rose Henshall simply looked at her suspiciously.

With Sam it really rankled, as she'd put herself out specially to be nice to them. Still, there was police work to be done, and so she steeled herself against rejection and approached Rose, the less hostile (and bustier) of the two girls, to enquire in sisterly fashion about the brassière. Rose, in no mood for sisterhood, glanced at it, denied all knowledge, and gave Sam a disdainful look to boot, retorting: "Anyway, who are _you_ to be asking?"

"True. Right." Sam looked down, crushed. Rose had a point. Who _was _she to involve herself in this? With no real police authority behind her, and denied admittance to the Land Girls' two-woman clique, she was completely frozen out and useless in terms of the investigation. All she could possibly contribute now was to share with Christopher her gut feeling that Rose Henshall might be lying.

Disconsolately, she made her way into the farm building where she had last seen Christopher.

"No joy, I'm afraid, Sir," she offered, formally. "She said it wasn't hers. Though I suspect she wasn't telling the truth." Sam added, almost as an afterthought, "Although it _is_ quite an expensive item for Rose..."

Foyle, who'd been stooping over a crack that ran along the concrete floor, and attempting to make sense of the blood that had collected there, stood upright as she spoke. Gazing intently at Sam, he prepared to do his best to learn precisely what was causing her to be so "off" with him, when, apparently from nowhere, Barbara Hicks appeared. She was so full of breathless information about a man she'd spotted in the environs at 4:00 a.m. that the moment, and his opportunity, was lost.

Sam watched Christopher straighten at the sight of Barbara Hicks, and began nervously to finger the brassiere she'd been in the process of withdrawing from her pocket. She observed how he inclined his head politely at Miss Hicks' information, and made light of the woman's apology at having seen too little to be of help. Quite patently, Barbara Hicks intrigued and amused him.

Hit by this realisation, Sam gripped the satin garment now, and felt like the intruder on an intimate scene.

Suddenly Miss Hicks' cultured tones hit Sam like a velvet fist. "Where did you get that?" she demanded, in a voice that proclaimed entitlement.

"This? I, um, it's..." Sam's confidence already at an all-time low, she found herself quite lost for words, especially as Christopher also had turned his eyes to her, as if to await a response.

"It's mine. What are you doing with it?" Miss Hicks' tone was blatantly unfriendly now. The woman glanced at Christopher as if to seek support.

There was a pause while Christopher took his time about stepping in to field the situation. In Sam's view, he was _far_ too slow about it. "Oh well," he began his calm, sly confrontation, "we, er... were just trying to decide what it was doing in Hugh Jackson's bedroom?"

Sam saw his eyes flash at Miss Hicks. He was enjoying the line of questioning entirely too much, in her opinion.

Indignation marched across Barbara Hicks' features. "Well, when you've _decided_, would you let _me_ know? May I _take_ it?" Her tone dripped sarcasm as she continued to glare Sam down. "Or is it Exhibit A?"

Christopher's amusement at the woman's discomfiture was still heavily apparent in his wry response: "Well, yes it _is_, but, er, _do_ feel free to take it. We'll... let you know when we need it." He threw her a wide-eyed challenge.

Affronted, Hicks grabbed the bra from Sam and hurried from the building. As Sam watched, Christopher's eyes stretched in residual enjoyment of the moment, and his tongue chased cheekily round the outside of his lips.

For his fiancée, this was the final straw. Her level of annoyance had been building since the previous evening, and had already risen higher than she could contain. Tears welling in her eyes, she turned sharply on her heel and stalked out of the building, ignoring Christopher's bewildered "Er... Sam?" resounding in her wake across the empty barn.

Foyle raised a bewildered hand to his brow, and would have pursued her forthwith, but his investigative territory was suddenly invaded by the Land Girls agitating to get to work, and he couldn't in good conscience let the opportunity pass by of questioning them "on the scene". Rose, as ever, was offhand and unrevealing, but Joan was positively provocative in her answers.

It was the tail-end of Joan Dillon's cockiness that hit Sam between the eyes when finally the girls emerged.

"Lady Muck, keepin' her eye on the sod-busters, is she?" Joan goaded her.

Sam was beyond a fight. "Listen. I don't know what I've done t—"

"Why don't the old man drive 'is self?"

"He's _not_ an old man." Sam bit her lip. She might be angry with Christopher, but she was not about to have his vigour or abilities impugned. A sharp prickle of indignation threatened once again to push her over into tears. There was no possible way that she could meet Joan Dillon's eyes in this state, and so she chose to keep her eyes averted.

But the onslaught wasn't over. Joan, spotting weakness, took her prey and shook it. "Don't you know there's a war on? Us breakin' our backs, and 'ere's you—all spic and span with yer... Barnet done up like a Cornish pasty. 'Angin' around..."

"Look." Sam took a breath—perhaps this could be dealt with reasonably. "I was drafted in from the MTC to drive Mr Foyl—"

"Is 'e givin' yer one? Iz_zat_ it? Wot, you 'is fancy woman? Is that 'ow it works?" Joan's eyes were vicious in their sharp enjoyment of Sam's now flaming cheeks.

"Joanie!" hissed Rose. "Just leave it! Come _on_!" And she ushered her companion from the yard, casting a half-ashamed look at Sam, who stood with her lips pursed in embarrassment at the bald affront.

Sam's misery was at its peak. Accused, convicted, tarred-and-feathered. Guilty though she might be in some eyes, she had to ask herself precisely _how_ she'd benefited from her supposed crime. _Some 'fancy woman' __**you**__ are, Samantha Stewart. Couldn't even get him interested last night, could you? The moment that Miss Hoity-Toity Hicks appeared, he turned to ice._

_Fancy woman? _Any other time and place, Sam could have held her head up high before those girls, and shot back, "As a matter of fact, I'm his _fiancée_ woman, if you _must_ know. So you can stick your horrid impertinence right in your bottom." But not today, she couldn't. Today she felt on shaky ground, faced with last night's rejection, then this interlude between Christopher and Miss Hicks in the barn. The woman was so rude and snippy to him, and he seemed to positively lap it up, _enjoy_ the sparring...

And now the tears seeped through her breached defences, and started coursing down her cheeks. They were still trickling by the time Christopher strode from the outbuilding, coat swinging round his legs as he pivoted to make a visual sweep of the yard.

His eyes alighted on Samantha and perceived the signs of her distress. He immediately approached her with a worriedly insistent, "Sam? Whatever's wrong with you today?"

Sam ignored his outstretched hand and responded with a brief shrug, managing to strangle out, "Nothing. Time of the month."

She was unlikely to be caught out in the lie, she reasoned bitterly. Christopher wasn't likely to show her any attention with _Miss Hicks_ hovering around the hostel…

* * *

><p>The following day, Sam's quietness over breakfast was still a source of some concern for Foyle. She'd pleaded tiredness directly after dinner the previous evening, making straight for bed. He hoped the rest would do her some measure of good, and he'd been happy to ascribe her moodiness to "women's things". Years of marriage had taught him to keep his head down and avoid the flak at such times.<p>

But the more he thought about it this morning, the more suspicious he became. His memory for dates was not infallible, but he fancied their… liaisons had—even allowing for her kidnapping—been sufficiently _regular_ to discount the possibility that he had missed an incident. In fact, if his recall was accurate, the last date he _did _remember for Sam did not tally with her current claim. Not that he considered the fib a serious one. Unless it actually hid _another_ kind of tiredness-and-moodiness-inducing circumstance she might have mixed feelings about. He bit his lip, resolving to approach her about it gently at some convenient moment later.

As they reached the farm, Sam wondered aloud whether they would be there all day, and Foyle confirmed as much. His curiosity was then piqued to see her take two bundles of what looked like clothing from the boot, and stride off into one of the outbuildings. A few moments later she emerged in rough working gear, her hair tied up in a scarf.

"I'm going to help the girls plant potatoes," she announced as she passed him.

"Sam. Stay a minute." He put out a hand to stop her. She halted, but didn't meet his eyes. "You're going to... what? D'you think that's... wise?"

She looked at him coolly. "What have I got to lose?"

_What had she got to...? _His eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of her. Did she fear she was expecting? She'd never try to induce… ? Quiet sadness seized him. His brows rose in pleading.

"Sam... we don't _know_ what, yet." He caught her lightly by the wrist. "It's _not _the time of the month, _is_ it?" he pressed her in an urgent whisper.

She shook him off. "Let me go, Christopher."

He stood immobile, gnawing fiercely at his inside cheek, and watched her stalk off down the yard.

Joan Dillon had witnessed the entire scene unfold from a hidden corner of the farmyard.

"I was right, then," she sneered as Sam drew level with her. "'E _is_ givin' you one, _ain't_ he?"

Sam rounded on her. "There is a limit," she hissed, "to what I'll take from you. What you _may_ not appreciate, _Joan, _is this: there is no _exploitation_ here. I am not _in it_ for what I can _get_. And _neither_ is he. I don't mind planting potatoes with you. I'll even stand a bit of teasing, within reason. But you've no call to insult me... or _him_. I _want_—" Sam balled her fists, then took a breath and calmed herself—"I _want_ to do my bit. I want to help." She levelled an entirely placid look at Joan.

Joan regarded her for a moment with thinly veiled admiration. "Coo. Is _that _what they teach you at posh school, then? To be _nice_?"

Sam sighed with resignation. "Yes, Joan. Yes, I s'pose it is."

* * *

><p>Sam hadn't slept so well in weeks. Oh, she ached all right. Ached like nobody's business, but it was a righteous ache. An ache that told of worthwhile work, done for the war effort. The quality of her sleep had indeed been so good that she woke refreshed, depression lifted, doubts allayed.<p>

She sat on the edge of the bed and stretched, rubbing her sore knees and the small of her back. As she did so, it crossed her mind she might have been unfair to Christopher. His behaviour towards Barbara Hicks had, after all, been nothing untoward. Perhaps he simply found the woman... challenging and amusing.

Sam threw herself into the day with renewed vigour. Progress had been made, she learned, in the investigation, and now it seemed as if Hugh Jackson's wife had never left the farm alive. By putting two and two together with the information she had gleaned from Joan about Hugh Jackson's favourite drinking spot on Poppy Bank, there seemed no doubt in her mind where the body must be buried. And so it was with no small sense of pride that she shared her vital gem of information with Christopher and Sergeant Milner.

The digging was well underway, and things were looking promising. Some bones had been unearthed. Sam was congratulating herself on her deductive powers, and thinking Christopher looked singularly handsome in the sunlight filtering down through the trees, when she caught sight of the small blonde figure of a girl picking her way through woodland in the middle distance. Samantha reached out to tug at Milner's sleeve.

"Paul, isn't that...? It's… Emily, isn't it?"

Milner's eyes rose from the excavations, and lit up in recognition. "Sir," he turned to Foyle. "I'd like to take a breather, if it isn't inconvenient."

Foyle glanced languidly in the direction Sam had indicated to his sergeant, then back at Sam. Their eyes met, and exchanged a shadow of a smile. He nodded. "Take an hour," he said.

* * *

><p>"Emily!" Paul's voice was breathless by the time he reached her, and his serious face broke into a hopeful beam. "Whatever brings you up here?"<p>

"Bluebells!" she grinned. "We don't get a lot of those in Croydon! About as rare as sheep."

"I see," he said, beguiled again. "What _do _you get a lot of, in Croydon?"

"Pot-bound aspidistras. And rats!" She giggled, rosy cheeks glowing with the exertion of her hike. "What's going on over there, then?" she gestured with her head towards the dig.

"Nothing... to concern yourself about." Milner shifted his weight awkwardly. "Care for some tea?"

"Tea?" she eyed him sceptically. "Got a café under your coat, have you?"

"Not... as such. Got a flask in the car, though." He waved his head towards it and strode in that direction with his uneven gait. Emily's short legs took two steps to his every one.

"What's wrong with your knee?" she asked him conversationally, gambolling at his side.

Paul smiled down at her. Suddenly he felt as if he could tell her anything. "My knee? Not much," he said. "The problem starts a little lower down. A bit of me went missing in action."

"Oh… goodness!" Her hand flew to her mouth, and two marine blue eyes gaped up at him. She halted. "I'm _so,_ so sorry, Paul."

"It's all right. Plenty of me left," he teased. He resumed his earlier pace, glancing back at her over his shoulder. "Coming?"

"Can I see?" she asked, skipping to catch up. "I've never seen a wooden leg."

He frowned across at her. "You're telling me they don't have _those_ in Croydon, either? However do you eat your dinner at the table?"

* * *

><p>It was rare for Sam to be allowed within 50 feet of the body of a murder victim, but today was an exception, the victim having died sufficiently long ago for the body, when eventually discovered, to be a less gruesome prospect than a recent corpse.<p>

Christopher's absorption in the progress of the dig was matched only by Sam's absorption in her fiancé. There had been no private opportunity to say that she was sorry for her mood, and now she found herself drawn like a magnet to his side while he observed proceedings and gave out instructions to the men.

Quietly, Sam watched the trajectory of the sun across the sky and counted the moments till they could be back inside the hostel. This time, she was resolved, she would not take 'no' for an answer. Rules or no rules, she would follow him up to his room and show him solid evidence of contrition, even if he only suffered her to stay for a few moments. Meanwhile, she bided her time patiently, content just to be nearby and a little involved.

When Milner left the scene to join young Emily, Sam's interest was momentarily engaged by their apparent ease together as they walked across the lower wood towards the car. It took them several minutes to reach the Wolseley at Paul's stiff-but-strong gait, with Emily's faster, smaller footsteps at his side. Eventually Sam drifted away from observing their progress, and turned back to Christopher, who had been standing beside her. When she did turn, she was surprised to find that he was gone.

Sam cast around her, puzzled for a moment, but soon located him. He was strolling uphill through the trees, head bowed and hands in pockets. Curious to know what he was up to, she began to pick her way carefully through the undergrowth until she reached the path that Christopher had taken.

Concentrating on her footholds, for the path was steep, Sam was a good way up the hill before she felt secure enough to lift her eyes and check what lay ahead. But when she did so, what she next saw left her wishing she had not.

There stood Christopher, beneath a tree, and in his arms she saw the weeping figure of Miss Barbara Hicks. His face was sideways on to her, and she could read the pained concern writ large upon his features. Hicks' gulping sobs resounded from the tree trunks as he held her. That woman. Folded in his arms. Head resting on his shoulder. Both hands grasping at his back. And crying on him! Crying on his coat. Her fingers digging desperately into the wool cloth stretched across his shoulders. Stretched because his arms were round her. Pain in his eyes. Immobile. Sheltering her. Letting her cry over him. His arms around her, pressing her against him.

"Nooooooooooooooo!" A cry of heartbreak rose inside Sam's soul and escaped her lips before she found the strength to stifle it. Her hands flew to her ears in a vain bid to block the sobs that echoed down the hill above her. She turned, careering headlong down the bank with no real thought for where her feet fell and even less concern for whether she stayed upright or fell face-first into the thick carpet of rotting leaves. Everything was rotten now… her world turned putrid in an instant.

* * *

><p>Emily sipped her tea contentedly from a metal cup in the back seat of the police car. They had been talking—seriously at first. She'd asked Paul how he'd lost his leg. He'd told her some of it—how he had fought at Trondheim—but she could tell he didn't want to dwell on details. Then they'd been laughing, mostly, for the best part of half an hour. Paul had a quiet, unassuming sense of humour that she found both attractive and intriguing.<p>

There was a lull now in the conversation and all at once, she felt a little shy. The question that she most wanted to ask tested even Emily's natural confidence. But being Emily, she asked it anyway.

"Paul, why aren't you married?"

Milner winced. He found he couldn't meet the girl's eyes now. "I am," he told her breathily. "My wife has left me. I don't..." he let out a tense breath. "There's no question of her coming back."

"You fell out?"

"I suppose you could say that. But it wasn't quite as if we fought." He frowned and forced himself to look at his companion. "I think... Jane must have really _loved_ my left leg from the knee down, because... when I hadn't got it any more, she wasn't all that interested in the rest of me."

Emily looked at him in puzzlement. His face was deadpan. "Paul," she said. "I think you made a joke."

He stared at her a moment, then his eyebrows lifted and he smiled. "I think you're right."

"Well that's good, isn't it?" she went on. "It means you're not so broken-hearted that your wife has left you any more. We ought to celebrate!"

His eyes warmed and the corners of his mouth rose. "If you're lucky, you might find a biscuit in the glove compartment. Unless Sam got peckish on the way."

Sensing gentle mockery, Emily glared at him. "Oh, well, avoid the subject if you like. Make fun of it. But _I'm _pleased you got out of Norway mostly in one piece._ And_ that they can't send you back now. And you like your job, don't you? Your boss seems very nice."

"I do. He is. I'm very fortunate in having Mr Foyle." He rubbed a hand along his thigh, curious to know where she would take things next.

"Sooo," she said, as if explaining to a child. "_I'd _say that's worth a celebration. Can I see it now?"

"See what?"

"Your wooden leg."

"It's aluminium, Emily."

"Well, whatever. Does it matter?"

"Well, it might," he gave her his most serious look, though now his heart was full of mischief. "If Britain needs another Spitfire, I could find myself on crutches any time."

* * *

><p>Foyle heard what sounded like a cry of anguish coming from the hill below, and ricked his neck round sharply over Barbara Hicks' blonde curls to see his fiancée running full tilt down the path away from them, hands plastered to her ears in obvious distress. He looked down at the woman in his arms, then back at Sam's retreating form. Closing his eyes in consternation, he gently separated himself from Miss Hicks, who by now had let go of him and seemed at last to be composing herself.<p>

"I do apologise," she told him, between snuffles. "I haven't gone to pieces like this in an age. You're really very kind."

"Absolutely nothing to apologise for." Foyle was torn between compassion for Barbara's loss of her son—it was while telling him about this that she had given way to such raw emotion—and anguish over Sam's obvious desolation at what must have looked like his betrayal of her.

"I, um, find your distress _entirely_ understandable. _My _beautiful son, thank God, is still alive. But... I lost my wife."

"I'm so terribly sorry..." she began.

"Aaand now, unfortunately, I have to go, or I might be about to lose my future wife, as well. She's seen me embracing you? I have some explaining to do? I'm sure you understand..." He stood awkwardly back from her, tongue testing his top lip as he looked at his shoes.

Hicks looked at him, uncomprehending. "Your _future_ wife?"

"Miss Stewart. Do please excuse me... Barbara." Foyle turned and started to descend the path.

Her voice called after him. "Of course. Please give her my apologies. And if there's _anything _that I can do..."

"Appreciate it," he called back over his shoulder. "I'll, um, let you know."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	22. Chapter 22

Title: The Crash

Author: dancesabove

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and I in no way profit from the story I've written.

Rating: T+

Pairing: Samantha Stewart and Christopher Foyle

A/N: Bit scorchy, this chapter. Apologies to the shippers of Mr Foyle and Barbara Hicks…

Thank you, GiuliettaC. You _always_ make it better!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 22<strong>

"Sam," Christopher called to her, lightly rapping his knuckles on the solid wood of the door. He was immensely grateful for a billet otherwise empty of farm workers. "_Please_ open the door. I need to speak with you."

Sam bit her lip and scanned the ceiling tearfully. His voice was kindly, yet determined, in a way that she knew she must heed.

"You've misunderstood what was happening, Love," he continued patiently. "Please hear me out."

Slowly she rose and drifted to the door, where she hovered for a moment, her forehead pressed with punishing force against the inside panel. She thought about the other time she'd allowed him entry to her lodging when still feeling angry at him—that time, too, all she'd wanted in the world had been to feel his arms around her, comforting her. It certainly had been a turning point for them.

Sam closed her eyes and screwed her courage before reaching for the doorknob. She turned the key back in the lock and opened the door.

Her eyes were fastened to the floor as she stepped back to let him in. "Seemed jolly clear to _me_ what was happening," she told him coldly.

He stood close up to her, shutting the door quietly behind himself, but Sam refused to meet his eyes, and as he tried to lift her chin, she shook him off and walked away, lowering herself stiffly onto the edge of the mattress, knees together, hands folded in her lap.

Foyle regarded her indulgently, running a hand around the back of his neck. "Samantha, the other night, when I suddenly didn't kiss you goodnight... Why d'you s'pose I didn't?"

"You were ashamed to." The answer was delivered in a tone intended to admit no argument.

He shut his eyes, purely to prevent himself from rolling them heavenward.

Now Sam lifted hers, and they were accusing. "As if that woman's opinion of us should matter," she continued petulantly, then raised her voice, "_Why does it matter,_ Christopher?"

His gaze was steady. "Couldn't matter less, in normal circumstances. But as you know full well, _that woman_ Barbara Hicks has shown herself to be so irascible from the first moment she spoke to us, it seemed to me highly likely we'd be out on our ears if she suspected any hanky-panky." He turned, his trilby in one hand, and tapped its brim against the other hand for emphasis. "Not to mention that her opinion of men is already so low, I can barely get her to talk to me _now._"

"You thrive on it!" Sam accused him. "I can tell how amused you are when she starts shredding you!"

He pivoted towards her in a sudden show of irritation. "Sam. How cooperative do you think she's likely to be if she thinks I'm seducing a woman half my age? One who also happens to be my subordinate?"

Sam furrowed her brow. "I'm your _fiancée, _for God's sake! Why should I—or you—_care_ what she thinks? Anyway, _why_ do you need her to be 'cooperative'?"

His eyes narrowed in an uncomprehending squint. "I have to care, Sam. It's my job."

"Oh. And is it _your job_ to wrap your arms around her in secluded woodland? Is that part of your job _too_, DCS Foyle?"

He gave a weary sigh, then offered simply, "She lost her son, Sam. Dunkirk."

A flash of contrition warmed the back of Sam's neck. She rolled her lower lip between her teeth and bowed her head.

"Look," Foyle went on, exasperated, "I wandered up that hill to ask the woman questions about Jackson, and instead, she met me with that tragic news, dissolved into a flood of tears, and… what the hell do you _expect_, Sam? That I should stand and watch her sob, unmoved? It's basic human kindness. Nothing more. I mean, what sort of man do you take me for?"

Silence.

Foyle's voice grew gentle. "Haven't I made it clear enough to you yet, that you're the world to me?" He sighed.

Sam rose and moved to the window, rubbing fretfully at her aching temples and struggling to make sense of things. "But you... you always seem so _entertained_ by her. You brighten visibly, the moment that she comes along."

Foyle let out a harsh laugh. "She's feisty, she's abrasive, she's pugnacious. Admittedly, it's been all that I can do not to laugh at her... she's _so_ damned bitter... But now I learn it's all a front. _Now_ I learn that there's a reason. Up on that hill, in one minute flat, I learn that she had a monster of an abusive husband, and that she's lost her one and only comfort: her son."

Christopher paused, allowing Sam time to absorb the information; his voice softened in empathy. "Her '_beautiful_ son' is how she described him. Now then: tell me I should have walked away from _that_. And left her weeping. Hmm? Sam?"

Sam sputtered, scrabbling to cling to her self-righteous indignation. But it was useless. Tears were rising—this time, tears of remorse. She slumped down on the bed with a frustrated bounce, and Christopher moved to sit beside her. She didn't shrink from him.

"Samantha... you have to learn to trust me..." he fumbled for her hand, and peeled her fingers from their tight grasp on the mattress edge. "Darling"—he sought her eyes—"was I right, before? Is there perhaps a _reason_ why you've felt so out of sorts?"

Sam's mind revisited their conversation at the Jackson farm... what was it he had said? That they didn't know 'what she had to lose'…?

_Oh, dear Lord_… had he thought…?

Christopher now had her hand encased in his, and was rubbing her knuckles gently with one thumb, but Sam was staring sightlessly at the tiny oval-framed needlework sampler hanging above the bureau.

_It was possible_, she conceded. She had ascribed her lack of a regular cycle to all the traumatic excitement of the kidnapping; the first flow to follow that had come about five days later than expected. What would the expected date of the next one have been?

She raised a slightly shaking hand up to her mouth and turned wide eyes on Christopher's face. "I might be. Honestly, I hadn't properly considered…"

"Sweet girl," he pressed her gently, "properly or improperly, I think it's time you did. Mmight not be the best time to be throwing yourself into heavy manual labour." His eyes were brimming with concern and love. "Unless… this isn't what you want…?"

With a gasp, Sam reached up and traced a finger over the unruly cloud of bristle of his eyebrow, noting with delight how its companion rose. "Darling, don't be silly, how could I not? I _love_ you." Tears were now spilling from her eyes.

"So, am I forgiven?" he asked her quietly, beneath a patient, steady gaze.

Samantha sniffed, then scrunched her mouth in one of those entertaining expressions of self-deprecation he so adored in her. "Am _I_?"

Christopher pursed his lips and rocked his head as if weighing up his answer.

"Well," he offered finally, pretending to sound severe, "ddunno. You left me in the middle of a field without transport… And I had to hitch a lift back to the hostel on a passing tractor... And Milner's most probably still stranded out there in the woods without a car..."

Sam snickered. "Not that he'll mind, long as Emily's nearby."

"Nup. I'd agree with that."

Foyle gave her a speculative look. "What do you suppose he'll do, once he has the chance to spend a little time with her alone?" he asked with mock innocence, moving with exaggerated casualness towards the door of the room.

"I hardly know," Sam answered earnestly. "Paul always seems so shy..."

She smoothed her skirt down over her knees, and followed him with large eyes.

"Hmm," Christopher twisted the key in the lock, then turned to meet her gaze. His eyebrow arch on this occasion held a promise that elicited from her a tremble of delight.

She watched as he removed his hat and coat, and hung them on the hook inside the bedroom door, then took off his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat.

Sam sighed happily at the signs that he was making himself comfortable, but then she realised with a shiver that he'd started to remove his cufflinks.

She watched with breathless fascination as his square-tipped fingers worked to free the cuffs, moving next to loosen and remove his tie...

"The hostel's virtually empty," he told her with a twinkle. "I think we've got at least two hours..."

Sam couldn't help it; she was staring at him, slack-jawed. It was so unlike him to be roguish in such situations that she scarcely could believe her ears.

"Hhhhow would you like to use the time?" he asked, and gave her a lopsided grin. Sam still was speechless, her questioning eyes seeking his.

He crossed the room and lifted her by the hand so that, in an instant, her body stood flush with his, and then his lips were warm on hers. She had to grip his shoulders suddenly to keep her legs from going out on her.

"This is the kiss I owe you from the other night," he told her in a whisper. "And this is what I would've liked to do... if not for interruptions..."

He placed a firm hand on her bottom and crushed her into him, tilting his head slowly to take her lips from another angle.

Sam moaned as she felt the unmistakeable hardness of his arousal pressing into her belly. His free hand pushed abruptly up into her hair, and dislodged pins from her careful coiffure so that they fell willy-nilly to the lino in a small cascade of clicking sounds.

"Christopher! My hairpins!" Sam protested weakly.

"The devil with them." His voice was low, and told her that he'd brook no interference.

Although Sam was being swept along by a wave of intense desire, she still felt a stab of worry that they might be discovered. After all, she was the one who'd managed to talk Mrs McGee into bending the rules to allow men into the hostel.

"Christopher," she gasped anxiously, "we have to be careful though."

"Bit late for that, don't you think? All things considered." His lips tugged sideways below laughing blue eyes. "And besides, the last time I was cautious about showing my affection, all it got me was a banishment to the doghouse. Believe me, Sam, I've learned my lesson. To me, now, 'careful' means the door is locked."

With that, he gathered her against him, and steered her expertly backwards toward the bed.

* * *

><p>Barbara Hicks slid from the saddle and walked her bicycle round behind the hostel to the cycle racks. The day had been a more difficult one than she could remember experiencing in a while. The carapace she wore to shield herself from further hurt had finally cracked under the constant strain entailed in coping with the bleak reality of disappointment and loss. And who had been on hand to witness this debilitating loss of tenuous composure? None other than Mr Lofty Policeman Foyle—Foyle, who, of all people, turned out to be not so lofty, but a kind and gentle man, prepared to stand there, stalwart and patient, while she made a total fool of herself. The sort of man on whose existence she had given up around the time that she had given up on happiness, well over twenty years ago, a further ten years after she had given up on Father Christmas and the fairies.<p>

She climbed the stairs up to the second floor, passing as she did so the landing where she had encountered Mr Foyle the other evening. She cast a brief glance toward the door she knew led to his room. He might be in there, she mused. She had last caught sight of him flagging down a passing John Deere tractor, shortly after his young driver—his fiancée, she reminded herself—had fled the wood, taking, she supposed, his comfortable staff car with her.

Barbara sighed. She'd leave the man in peace. Enough for one day. She had sensed the raw distress beneath his aura of forbearance when they'd parted on the hill. He'd have a job of it, perhaps, explaining to Miss Stewart—to _Samantha_, Barbara corrected herself—what had passed between them up there. She wondered whether the young woman had taken refuge in her room. There had been no sign of the Wolseley outside the hostel, but then again, the village green, the only place where cars could easily be parked without obstruction, was round the corner, out of sight. She thought she knew which room Samantha occupied, and resolved to knock there, on the off chance, to explain the circumstances to the girl.

The hostel was as quiet as Barbara was used to having it. She often found herself the only one in residence at this time of the day, and as she climbed towards the second landing, she did not expect to hear another soul. On this occasion, though, the peaceful silence she would normally encounter on the level of her room was not unbroken, for there were faint noises coming from the room she had assumed to be Miss Stewart's.

And if she were not very much mistaken, the sounds, though muffled, were those of a couple enthusiastically engaged in intimate relations. Barbara bridled. Her startled eyes flew to the door across the corridor, her lips pressed in a momentary line of disapproval. She took a step towards the door with the firm intention of rapping soundly on it and admonishing the occupants.

Then something halted her. It was the soft, low rumble of endearments—a man's voice, unmistakeably. And, she realised in the same instant, that of Mr Foyle.

Barbara stood for a moment, fixed to the spot. The tender sounds that reached her ears were far removed from any she had ever heard or uttered in the course of her disastrous marriage. Tears filled her eyes; the stern disapprobation melted from her lips. Quietly she retreated, grimacing for an instant when her foot landed on a creaky floorboard, and withdrew into her room, closing the door as softly as she could behind her, so as not to disturb the lovers in their intimate moment.

* * *

><p>Sam felt the soft edge of the mattress jut into the back of her knee, and swayed slightly as a loss of balance threatened. She need not have worried. Christopher swept her toward him and, sinking down onto the bed himself, swivelled her expertly and drew her down so that she sat across his thighs.<p>

The force of her momentum sent Sam's other hip hard into his lap, and he hissed in momentary shock as she collided with his hardness.

"My poor darling, sorry," Sam murmured against his mouth, "and I've given you quite an awful time these last days, haven't I?" She wriggled herself back a little, making enough space so she could slide a hand between them, questing for the outline of him underneath the waist pleats of his wool serge trousers.

He gave a light moan of pleasure, and wrapped one arm around her shoulder, bringing his free hand to rest upon her outermost hip.

"No matter… my love. I can only… say I'm sorry my behaviour's put you in this state. I get very single-minded on the job," he told her earnestly. Noting her suppressed amusement, he amended with a wry lift of one eyebrow, "Perhaps I should rephrase that?"

Sam shook her head. "I think you ought to let it stand. A very apt description. And I wouldn't want you any other way." She furrowed her brow lightly to see a faint melancholy cloud his face. "Sweetheart?"

His eyes met hers, and instantly the warmth returned to them, but still he wore a meditative look. "Hmm. Was just thinking of my single-mindedness, and fatherhood. Andrew…"

Sam fanned her hand through his hair just behind one ear and tugged playfully, silencing him with the upward yank of his head. "Now. Christopher. No more of that crying over spilt milk. Andrew is a fine young man, in spite of your _horrendous_ failures as a father over the years. And we've already discussed how you'll make up for whatever you think was lacking… with our own child."

What had begun as jocularity when she spoke the words, transformed to wonder as she absorbed their true meaning: she and Christopher were to be parents. The sweetly pained look of emotion on Christopher's face as he realised it, too, put her on the verge of tears once more, but she barely had the time to register his reaction before his mouth was demanding hers again, his hand firmly bracing her jaw.

Sam shivered to feel his unfaltering determination mixed with light, tender movements as he held her close. She in turn pulled upward at his shirt, intent on freeing it and sliding her hands up under it to feel the warm skin of his back, but some unbuttoning had to take place before that was quite possible.

After an interlude of amorous wrestling, Christopher soon had her shirt and under things loosened so that their upper bodies could touch, but the urgency of his arousal at her hip told them both that standing up to strip from the waist down would soon be necessary.

She tore herself from another deep, lazy kiss and stood long enough to shed the rest of her clothes. Christopher followed suit. As lovely as it would have been to draw out their foreplay, he was mindful of antagonising their kind hosts, and it was always possible that some member of the group might return to the hostel early.

Foyle pulled Sam swiftly across his lap again in one smooth spinning motion, lying her down on the bed as his lips felt, inch by inch, the downy skin of her neck.

She moaned helplessly, swooning at the warm caress of his mouth at her throat, and wriggling to situate herself beneath him in such an open way that it would not take him long to be joined to her.

In the next short moment Christopher sank blissfully within her, thankful to find as he moved upward over her body that the bed had silent springs. The only sounds now were their quickened breathing as they moved together in a lovely rhythm, mixed with her sweet sounds of pleasure and his voice, soft and low, murmuring, "Sam, oh, God… my darling… you feel so… warm… so exquisite…"

Sam worked her legs up and around his hips, allowing him to burrow deeper, and his loving words gave way to a drawn-out, agonised groan as he held back the climax threatening to claim him. He shut his eyes tightly and took two deep breaths before regaining enough control to slow things down and make sure she reached her release before he did.

"Uuuunh…" Samantha stretched full length and caught her lip as her ecstasy began to mount. Clutching the edge of the pillow above her head as if it were the last handhold on a cliff-face arresting her fall to the ground, she swivelled her hips to feel him as completely within her as she possibly could. With a sigh of passion, Christopher reopened his eyes just enough to catch this sensual movement. The instant Sam caught sight of that glimmer of blue, communicating in the merest glint his worship of her, she felt herself hurtled over and into a euphoric abyss. Crying out his name, she pulled the pillow down to cover her face and shuddered beneath him.

The joy of knowing what heights he'd brought her tore a low soft roll of laughter from Christopher's chest, and he pushed the pillow away so that he could murmur in her ear, the moment he let himself go, "My sweet wife… love you so much…"

* * *

><p>"Will this feel different, do you think, once we are truly married?" Sam asked softly, head pressed to his chest as they recovered.<p>

"Mmm," he mused, and smiled as Sam started at the strong vibration beneath her ear, then glanced up at him with glowing eyes. "Afraid it all diminishes after the wedding day. Loses all its excitement…" he teased.

"Ahh. Too bad," she sighed, unfazed. "Still, people must keep aspiring to it, even after a bad experience. Look at Paul."

"The young lady seems genuinely fond of him. Hope she shows understanding as he tries to find his way."

"I do, too. He deserves much more than Jane ever was able to give."

Foyle looked down at her dear, concerned expression as he played with a few silky strands of hair. Given his lovely fiancée's capacity for empathy, he hadn't really doubted that he could convince her to understand her misconception of this afternoon.

She bent her neck to look up into his eyes. "Husband mine?"

His face transformed into a sunrise at that. "Mmmm?"

Sam was generous in victory as she nuzzled contentedly against his chest. "I think Barbara Hicks deserves better, too. I hope that one day, she'll find someone as wonderful as you."

Christopher nodded, unable to suppress an amused twitch of his lips as she added under her breath, "…but meanwhile, she'd better keep her hands off my man."


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N:**

Thanks be to GiuliettaC. Wouldn't even happen without her! Almost up to wedding time…

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 23<strong>

By the time Sam had careered down the wooded hill and run towards the Wolseley, sobbing from her fateful glimpse of Christopher consoling Barbara, Paul Milner and his new friend had already left the car to take another walk.

"So… you're on the hunt for bluebells?" Paul raised his brows, and the moment that he did so, his face lost its usual stern, steady look and lit up with interest and pleasure. "I think I saw a large patch over here..."

The much shorter Emily kept close to his side and contrived to bump his arm a bit as they made their way over a section of pasture, observed by placid brown cows. _She likes me,_ Paul found himself thinking. His sense of her attraction to him hadn't faded; even after he had told her about the situation with Jane, the signals she was giving were unchanged, but...

What was proper? How free was he? He'd never had sufficient cause to ponder it before, nor had he thought about it hypothetically.

But one thing was for sure: inside himself, in Emily's company, he felt no less a man than he had been before he lost his leg. The reason being that, unlike Jane, Em was not repulsed by the idea of his prosthetic limb. Her attitude was more a case of bouncy curiosity.

He found that, frankly, charming. Made him want to roll his trouser leg up there and then, and satisfy that curiosity. Which of course—ridiculous idea—his silly dignity wasn't about to let him do. Still, he found it interesting that he was even contemplating doing so; and that brought a quiet smile to his normally austere features.

Emily plonked herself down among a few sparse patches of the wildflowers, and after speculating for a moment, Paul flexed the leg gingerly, lowering himself with caution against a tree-trunk to join her on the ground.

Casting a surreptitious glance at his efforts, Emily gave a little secret smile. "Will you and Mr Foyle and Sam still be here tomorrow?" she asked, carefully paying no heed to his awkwardness.

"Imagine so. Some loose ends to wrap up, yet." Paul let out the breath he had been holding as he slid down to a sitting position.

"Perhaps you'd like to join in with the little bash we're having at the hostel for Joan's birthday."

Milner grinned. "More good food and good company. I should hope we can."

"And Tom is making such big eyes at Joan. I think he's working up to a proposal…" Em twirled one blue flower between thumb and index finger, examining its delicate bell. "Paul…"

She trailed off, and he looked at her questioningly.

"Are Mr Foyle and Sam in love?"

Paul's eyes squinched in momentary amusement and surprise combined. How could she know that? The two were unerringly professional in public, and furthermore, Em had spent only very limited time around them.

"Wwwell, they…" He caught the sweet glint in her eye, and knew it didn't spell prurient interest. She was just happy for them, and curious—that was all.

Emily flashed him another warm little smile. Her eyes were lively and flirtatious, but not in a coquettish way. There was a quiet composure to her sparkle that invited trust, and he found it reassuring.

"You can tell there is something between them…" Em went on. "There are these tiny stars in his eyes when he's teasing her, and she gets the same twinkle in _her_ eyes when she knows she's being teased! And when either of them thinks no one is looking, they send each other the most romantic glances."

She got a faraway look in her eyes, and he felt a sudden tightening around his heart.

Sergeant Milner scanned her face once more. _Yes, we can tell her._

"As they work together, Emily, I know they'd wish it not to be widely known, but… yes. They've cared for each other almost from the very start, but only told each other a couple of months ago. And… they plan to be married quite soon."

He smiled gently, but in the smile Emily could see a shadow of sadness. _This lovely man, so lonely, and his two colleagues have each other, but he…_

Em placed her hand over his and caressed his wrist bone with her thumb. "Dear Paul. I know."

His glance had dropped to their hands as she reached out, but with her words he looked again into her remarkably changeable eyes, now a soft pale green-blue. The look held, and each felt a powerful urge to move closer to the other—an urge Em found herself too shy to follow without encouragement, and one Paul's conscience told him he had no right to pursue. 

* * *

><p>The next day had brought even more clarity to the investigations.<p>

"You're free to go," announced Foyle brightly to the two young women waiting nervously in the interview room at Hastings Constabulary. Sam's happy smile as she stood beside her boss became infectious as Joan and Rose absorbed the glad reality of escaping prosecution. They hugged each other, overjoyed in disbelief, before thanking the DCS, awash with smiles for him and Sam.

Joan was the first of the two girls to recover herself, and, never one for shyness, asked, "How are we going to get back?"

"Police escort," Foyle offered matter-of-factly, shrugging on his overcoat and reaching for his hat. "Come on!"

The happy little party filed out after him, Sam grinning in their wake.

And _that_, so it appeared to Foyle, was that. Case closed on Jackson and the tragic end he'd visited upon his wife long years ago. Some loose ends to negotiate with Major Cornwall's arrogance, over at the POW camp, but just for now, tonight, thought Foyle, they might allow themselves a breather. The last few days had been more than a little fraught, professionally _and_ personally; and everyone would benefit from some recovery time. A little time alone with Sam, perhaps? Pick up where they'd left off the day before…

Foyle pursed his lips, by no means certain how they would achieve the necessary privacy while billeted at the hostel, but with the pull of personal contentment still pulsing in his mind from their last delectable and revelatory encounter in Samantha's room, he resolved to try his best.

Foyle's experience of young women all together in a crowd was limited, but it told him enough to know that time alone with Sam would be impossible immediately on arrival at the hostel. Sam, Rose and Joan had chattered nineteen to the dozen throughout the drive from Hastings, and he had the feeling they would not let Sam go easily. Besides, his head was spinning from an overload of feminine chat, so when the Wolseley pulled up outside their destination, he declined Sam's eager "Coming in, Sir?" and encouraged the girls to go on ahead, saying that he'd be in presently.

His instincts proved correct, for as he slipped quietly around the side of the building, spying a wooden bench where he could sit and gather his thoughts, the sound of cheering, sandwiched between _'Here-she-comes!'_ and _'Many happy returns, Joan!_' reached his ears. Hot on the heels of these surprise birthday party noises came a hearty rendition of _For she's a jolly good fellow/And so say all of us_, complete with foot-stamps. A celebration was clearly underway, and in his view, it would do very well without him.

Foyle lowered himself onto the bench, settled back, and closed his eyes in contemplation. Now that he thought of it, the party noises might in fact work to his and Sam's advantage, if they could slip away unnoticed in a little while…

"Hello!"

A voice cut through his smiling ruminations—insistent, though not sharp, but unmistakeably the voice of Barbara Hicks. Foyle roused himself and sat up straight in preparation for whatever was in store—one never could be certain with this woman. He steeled himself for querulous or prickly, but saw that she was tendering a glass of something drinkable instead.

Miss Hicks' face was conciliatory, bordering on apologetic.

"I brought you this," she ventured, thrusting the glass into his hand. It was a certain indicator that she hadn't come to bite his head off.

Foyle's mouth turned down in undisguised amusement.

"Well, that's kind of you," he answered, wondering what to expect next.

"Ginger beer," she added helpfully.

"Wull, thank you. How much kick should I expect?" he asked, and held the glass aloft in teasing inquiry.

"I suppose I've deserved that," she said with a rueful but wry sidelong glance, and sank beside him on the bench. "Tom's just proposed to Joan, and she's accepted."

Foyle flashed a rare smile of delight. "That's good!"

"Is it?" As a Hicks retort went, this was mild, but undeniably an invitation to debate a weary subject.

Foyle's cheerfulness gave way to a look of slight wariness. His answer was simple but firm. "Yes."

"But for how long?" Her tone was sad concern, rather than cynicism.

"Well," he offered wisely, "things the way they are, good for the time being is perhaps enough?"

Barbara absorbed his stillness for a long moment. His question to her in the woods had been a show of kindness she would not forget, and she was anxious now to understand the man who'd asked it. "What happened to _you_, then?" she cast his question back at him.

"What happened to me?" There was deliberation in his answer, and there was sadness too, but not, she noted, bitterness.

"There was a marriage… and a loss. I lost my wife. But I survived the bleakness. In later years, I've been fortunate to gain a soulmate, and my life is richer now than I ever hoped it could be. So…" he summarized, "I have a vastly higher opinion of women than you do of men."

Barbara gazed into her glass and sighed in affable frustration. "Everything's so very difficult, isn't it?"

He nodded his agreement, though his eyes remained fixed on the ground, remembering the sadness he had left behind him; then he turned to Barbara, and noticing the effort she had put into her outfit, dipped his chin.

"It's a nice dress," he offered, feeling safe now to point out how well the green silk suited her.

"Do you think so? It's from the parachute."

"The German's parachute?"

"I dyed it." She smoothed the fabric proudly. "I got _this_ one, one for Joan, and six others out of it."

"Right," he raised a brow. "Not badly damaged, then?"

"Barely at all. It looked like a new one."

"Rrright." Foyle bet it did. Because it _was_ new, wasn't it? Unused, in fact. And there was more to _Leutnant_ Weiser than met the eye—well, Cornwall's blinkered eye, at any rate.

"But even if it _had_ been damaged," he continued, "you'd've cut your pattern round the spoilage, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have thrown _all _the silk away… just because it had a tear or two?"

She gazed at him with an intensity that spoke first of puzzlement, but then of slowly dawning comprehension. "Mm," she answered quietly. "Yes. How true."

Foyle saw her whole mood shifting then. Hicks raised her glass. "To Tom and Joan."

"To staying sane around adversity," he offered mildly.

"I'll drink to that as well," she said. 

* * *

><p>Late afternoon wore into evening, and the festivities around the happy couple showed no sign of winding down. If ever proof were needed that euphoria could be sustained without the help of alcohol, then this was it.<p>

Some time into the celebrations, Emily became aware that she hadn't seen Paul for a bit, and, failing to find him on the ground floor of the hostel, wandered out to look for him. It was already dark outside, with only the moon illuminating her path around the building, and she soon reasoned that her search was silly. It was hardly likely that Paul would stand outside alone in the darkness.

She was just about to turn around and slip back indoors, when a shaft of moonlight caught a figure—no, a couple standing close together—tucked into the angle between two wings of the hostel. Startled, Em darted swiftly back into a patch of darkness, lest she be detected.

Emily knew she should not be a voyeuse, but she was riveted to the spot by the misty way Mr Foyle was gazing into Samantha's eyes as he slowly drew her towards him. He clasped one of her hands against his heart. Her other hand spread upon his chest and he locked it in place beneath their joined hands.

Both sets of lips were slightly parted in anticipation, reflecting a shimmer of the moonlight. Clearly they were oblivious to her—Mr Foyle's eyelashes were cast downward so that Em could see only the slightest sliver of blue focussed on his lover's face; Sam's, too, fanned and fluttered dreamily, eyebrow arching in pleasure at his touch.

An instant before his open mouth gently captured hers, he murmured, "You are the loveliest thing on this earth," and moved his tongue softly forward to greet Samantha's.

Emily suddenly felt faint.

She stepped carefully back into the shadows as Mr Foyle deepened the kiss, and she could hear both participants softly moaning in the midst of it. Her eyes widened as she realised the need it was creating in her; the even more seductive image taking shape in her mind, now she could no longer see them. She turned to run in search of Paul. 

* * *

><p>By the time Milner opened his door to the insistent knocking—he wide-eyed in his shirtsleeves, his dark eyebrows raised in almost comic astonishment at the apparent energy she had put into rousing him—Em was out of breath from her sprint, but her eyes were riveted to his in determined fashion.<p>

"Paul! I want… I've seen… I mean, I need you to…" She bobbed on the spot outside his door, glancing nervously up and down the corridor, fingers flexing in impatience, while he stood smiling down on her inquiringly, and waited for the punch line.

"Whenever you're ready, Em." His lips curled up in open amusement.

Emily's eyes narrowed and both hands curled into tight fists. "_Don't _make fun of me, you _cat_. It wasn't easy to come here and beg… and beg you to… to…"

Paul frowned now in concern. "To _what_, Em? Spit it out."

Em scanned the corridor in both directions; then she hissed, "To _kiss_ me. Paul. I need you to—oh _never mind._ Come here!"

With that she flung her arms around his neck and launched herself at his lips with a single-minded dedication that sent him staggering back into his room.

Paul straightened as he did so, and Em's feet left the floor. He grasped her to him in a mix of startled pleasure and alarm. The force of her against his body nearly sent him flying, but he managed to remain standing until his right calf struck the mattress and collapsed them both onto the bed.

"Em!" he laughed, "what are you pl…?"

"Playing at?" Em lay atop him, heady with excitement. _This was wonderful._ To feel Paul underneath her. She could feel the same sensation that she'd felt when she had watched Samantha's kiss with Mr Foyle. Except that this was better. This was THEM together. And she wanted more.

"Here!" said Paul, struggling upright in alarm as he felt himself react to the sweet squirming going on against his lower body. "Emily, this isn't—we mustn't—"

The fair-haired young woman had stumbled to her feet and was now biting her lower lip in mortification, tears blinding her as she smoothed down the skirt of her dress. "I know, you're right; I—" she suddenly burst into embarrassed sobs, hugging herself and shaking her head. "Sorry… sorry, Paul…"

Paul's brow furrowed in sharp remorse for inadvertently humiliating her. "Shhh…" he began, stepping toward her and drawing her back into his arms. "It's all right, Emily. _I'm_ the one who should say 'sorry'..."

He received a rather noisy snuffle in response, and the edges of his mouth again turned up as he withdrew one arm from round her, long enough to root for a handkerchief in his trouser pocket. Finding one, he quickly checked that it was clean, then proffered it to a grateful Em.

"My poor dear," he said softly, helping her to blot at her eyes, before giving her a private moment to blow her nose. At last Em found her voice, and, haltingly, attempted to explain.

"I saw… I saw S-Sam and Mr Foyle together in the moonlight, and they looked so… romantic and h-happy and I just…" she blushed and shut her eyes tightly.

_God,_ thought Paul, rattled both by developments between him and Em, and by the strong feelings of protectiveness and need to comfort her that infused him, _I've got to look into the divorce as soon as I possibly can. Put myself at liberty to be open to this lovely girl…_

He drew back and looked with a confused intensity into Emily's eyes.

"Em, you _know_ I'm not quite free…"

She nodded, wiping a last trace of wetness from her cheek, and held his gaze then with a steady promise of support through whatever unpleasantness he might have to face.

With scrupulous care, he lowered his head and let his lips brush hers.

Emily felt her stomach flutter as he pulled her closer and tightened his hold on her. Paul's kiss was chaste and yet filled with a tenderness that left her in no doubt about his feelings towards her. Her knees, so sturdy normally when labouring around the farm, felt suddenly like jelly. Yet here, enfolded in Paul Milner's firm embrace, she felt tremendously secure. 

* * *

><p>Sam stood around the corner from the hostel entrance, hastily neatening her hair. "I'll go in first, shall I?" she turned to look at Christopher, who was leaning with an openly amused expression against the wall, hands in his pockets like a boy affecting innocence when caught up to no good.<p>

"It's all right for you," she scolded. "Nothing messes up _your_ hair, and if it _does_, you simply hide it underneath your hat."

"You've got a hat as well," he pointed out, with his infuriating brand of logic.

"It's not the same," she told him patiently, though struggling to think exactly _why_ it wasn't. "Anyway, don't follow me in immediately, or somebody might notice."

"Yes, Miss Stewart," he smirked, then added, "Sam?"

"Hmm?" she swivelled.

"C'm'ere." He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back against him.

"Chris—!" Sam's protest disappeared into another kissing meal. His hand reached for her hair but absently she batted it away, and felt it wrap around her waist instead, sealing her to him.

Finally, she pushed herself one-handed off his chest. "This isn't doing any good," she warned. "Just putting off the evil moment."

"Right you are," he nodded. "Off you go, then," and relaxed against the wall.

"Don't follow me immediately," she reminded him.

"I couldn't if I wanted to," he grinned. "Mmmight be several minutes till I'm decent. And this problem's not the sort of thing a hat will hide." 

* * *

><p>As Fate would have it, Sam's re-entry to the hostel was observed by Barbara Hicks. And though Hicks had a tendency to read guilt into innocence—a habit she aspired now to correct—she didn't think that she was wrong on this occasion. Though far from gifted in the dark art of clairvoyance, she'd make a fair bet with herself that the next face across the threshold would be Mr Not-So-Lofty Foyle's.<p>

Accordingly, Foyle sauntered in a few short moments later with his customary dancer's gait, his trilby clutched in front of him instead of on his head. Barbara watched him disappear upstairs without a second glance at Sam, who hovered by the tea-urn concentrating very heavily on her sandwich.

As Barbara watched, the girl's head rose and their eyes met. To her surprise, Sam smiled and crossed the room towards her.

"Miss Hicks, I've meant to say I'm sorry for… the other day," Sam put her plate aside a little awkwardly, and shook her head, avoiding Barbara's eyes. "I've been… a little overwrought. I thought that you and Christopher—and Mr Foyle…"

She blushed.

"No call for an apology," Barbara smiled warmly. "He's told me you're engaged to marry. And actually, considering the circumstances, what else were you to think? So, good for you, for showing spirit. You must never let them think they have it all their own way. Otherwise…" Hicks eyes flashed and grew distant, "it's the slippery slope. And don't I know it!"

Sam's face broke into a broad grin. "That's jolly decent of you…"

"…Barbara," Hicks nudged.

"That's jolly decent of you, Barbara. But Christopher would never…"

"Take advantage of a weakness and exploit it? There are many men who would, Samantha. Not Mr Foyle, perhaps. He has unusual qualities."

Sam beamed. "You think so? Honestly, I've thought that since the moment we first met."

"How long ago was that?"

"A year… no, wait a bit…" Sam scrunched her face and counted on her fingers, "eleven months. And we've been engaged for quite a few weeks now. Hmm."

Something was distracting Sam. She glanced down at her plate, which bore the crusts of two egg sandwiches, and licked her lips, and swallowed. Then she looked startled up at Barbara for a second, blanched, and blurted out a desperate, "Oh dear. Excuse me!"

As Barbara watched, open-mouthed, Sam bolted from the room, hand melded to her mouth.

When Barbara found her, Sam was kneeling forwards with her hands braced on the lavatory pan, and retching her insides out.

"Oh, good Lord!" Hicks offered sympathetically. "Don't tell me that the eggs are off! I've scoffed a bucket-load of chopped egg sandwiches this afternoon. Are you all right?" She stood behind her in the cubicle and wrung her hands.

"I'm… yes," Sam gulped, "I'm. Listen, don't concern yourself about the eggs. I really don't think that's the problem. I'll be fine in just a moment. Honestly I will."

Sam hauled herself back to her feet, and grasping blindly for the toilet roll, wiped her face with several squares of Izal, which was stiff and awfully unforgiving on the face, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Hicks gave her an alarmed look spelling recognition. "Oh, you're NOT."

"Not what?" tried Sam, pathetically.

Barbara threw herself towards the washbasin and turned on the tap. "Come here. We'll clean you up a bit." She stuffed the plug into the sink with irritable force. "Men! Honestly! You'd think he'd be more careful. Just can't help themselves, can they? Even the most high-minded, decent ones amongst them. Scratch the thin veneer of civilised behaviour, and you'll find fur beneath."

She stalked into the cubicle where Sam had knelt and grabbed a generous handful of the stiff and shiny toilet-paper, crumpling it in her hands to soften it, then strode back to the basin and immersed the wad of paper in the water. "Face," she commanded briskly, lifting Sam's chin to the light and wiping it with gentle care. "Now wash your mouth out, dear. I'll get some more to pat you dry."

"It wasn't his fault, Barbara." Sam's voice was small. "I talked him into it." She smiled into the mirror, wanly. "And I can be quite persuasive, when I try…"

Hicks stared at Sam's reflection, rolling her eyes and shaking her blonde curls.

"And then, of course," continued Sam, "we couldn't stop. Nor would I have…"

"…have wanted to?" Barbara's lips formed into a straight line. She closed her eyes and smiled her gentle admonition. "Oh well. This might be one unusual set of circumstances, and _one_ man for whom I couldn't really blame you." 

* * *

><p><strong>tbc...<strong>


	24. Chapter 24

Title: The Crash

Author: dancesabove

Disclaimer: The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz, but no infringement is intended and I in no way profit from the story I've written.

Rating: T

Pairing: Samantha Stewart and Christopher Foyle

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

This is the final chapter of a story I have both loved and felt tugged by. I began writing it (spinning it as I went along) two-and-a-half years ago, when unemployed and greatly inspired to write, having only just discovered "Foyle's War." Shortly after I completed Chapter 10 or so, I went back to work, and the rest came quite slowly. I know I am not alone amongst fan fiction writers in saying that, somewhere along the way, I lost some of that magical drive and inspiration (though my adoration for the earliest four seasons of the program never waned.) But I had so much help from the wonderful friends I have made through my interest in this remarkable show and with fanfic based upon it. They're all marvelous writers, I was proud to have their contributions and assistance, and to my delight, I've had a chance to meet nearly all of them.

_The Crash_ is dedicated to hazeleyes571, GiuliettaC, Jewell, TartanLioness (the model for young Emily Forsythe), and emma de los nardos. Additional thanks to Treva Rea, MyMadness, Wolseley37, Persiflage, and misslavish, for listening!

I'm so grateful to all of you who've reviewed it over time—your lovely comments were always helpful and a pleasure to receive.

And lastly, but most importantly, thank you to the fine actors who so beautifully portray these characters and their nuances.

—dancesabove

* * *

><p>Chapter 24<p>

Sam stood before the full-length mirror tilted beside the wardrobe and tried slightly fluffing the scarf she wore at her throat.

"Hmmm..." It was about the eighth time she had expressed this sceptical sound as she tried to get the look of her wedding ensemble just right. She had banned her mother and even Meri from the room, with the added proviso that she'd not tolerate any tweaking of "her look" once she had decided just precisely how she wanted it.

Sam's wedding suit was a smart powder-blue silk-wool blend that had come from a brand new sewing pattern and a forgotten bolt of fabric that Mrs Stewart had purchased 10 years before and never got round to using.

Sam had been absolutely thrilled when her mother produced it, because the colour was very similar to the dress Sam had been wearing the first moment that Christopher had seen her in civilian garb. It was the occasion when she changed at the station to go out to The Palais with Tony. She remembered vividly how impressed the DCS had looked—though his appreciative glance was eminently gentlemanly. She felt a flutter of delight as she tried to imagine the look those blue eyes would hold as he watched her walk down the aisle to him today.

"No..." she mumbled, removing the scarf altogether and testing the appearance of the white silk blouse collar outside the jacket. "Not over lapels," she decided aloud. She sighed with frustration as she tucked the collar points back under again. What was the missing element?

A soft knock at the door sounded, and Sam once again turned side-on to the mirror and reassured herself that there was no swell to her abdomen below the skirt's taut waistband. "Who is it?"

Sam felt a little ashamed at how relieved she was to hear Meri's soft voice at the door; she quickly allowed her in, darting a glance up and down the hall to be sure they were quite alone.

"Now, Merivale, determined though I am to look 'just so', I can't seem to achieve it. What's not quite right?" Sam walked a few paces back and forth, as the older woman admired the elegance of her suit's simple lines, adorned with a few medium-grey buttons...

_Yes,_ Meri thought, _might be just perfect..._

"Well, there _was_ 'something old' I wanted to give you. Please don't feel that you _have_ to wear it, dear, but have a look."

Meri took from her pocket a small pin with a delicate lace-and-floral design rendered in silver, a miniscule pearl playing the part of a lily's pistil.

Sam gave a little gasp as she held it to the lapel of the jacket. It was a crowning touch. Small as it was, it lent a slightly more formal air, even before the modest hat with its miniature flowers and springy veil was placed upon her head.

"Shouldn't be surprised that you've made it absolutely perfect," she said, hugging the lilac-clad Meri; then she promptly burst into tears.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" Meri reached behind her for the large handkerchief she'd noticed on the bed and consoled Sam as best she could with coos and strokes of her hair. Her bemused astonishment had lasted for only a second before it occurred to her what this might be all about.

"Sorry," Sam snuffled into the handkerchief. "I know you know this isn't any sort of unhappiness!" but she was taken by another shudder and more tears.

"Samantha, darling. Look at me for just a moment. Is it possible that you are expecting?"

Sam winced shut her eyes, took a deep breath, then nodded. "Yes. The doctor says it's so. I was thinking of telling you just now, anyway, Meri. Of course, I dare not tell Mother or Dad."

"Shhh, there, now. Of course not. We'll just 'adjust months' when you first start to show, and say the baby came a bit early, when that time comes. You're so petite," she patted Sam's tummy affectionately, "that I doubt you will ever be very large… though one never knows."

Sam hugged tightly the dear lady who had turned out to be much more of a mother to her than her own; what a blessing to have her standing beside her today.

She pulled back, fingering the brooch with furrowed brow. "Meri, wouldn't you want to give this pin to Angela?"

"Oh, she's had many little pieces of mine over the years, Sam, and I know she wouldn't mind your having this one. It was always a favourite, but it's for that very reason that I want _you_ to have it. I've been so glad to watch your happiness grow since you and Christopher realised your feelings for each other." Meri glanced at the tiny hat and the bouquet that lay upon the foot of the bed. "Are you nearly ready, then?" I saw the groom and Arthur leave for the church, so perhaps we'd best not keep them waiting!"

* * *

><p>Sitting in a pew beside Emily Forsythe, Paul Milner mused on the other-worldly feel of both the previous evening and today. Early Friday evening they had embarked for Lyminster: Foyle, Sam, Meri, Milner and Emily—but in short order Sam had felt unwell more than once, and they had made a brief stop in Polegate. Paul was just beginning to wonder whether Meri or Emily would be able to drive, when his boss ensconced his driver in the front passenger seat, and silently got behind the wheel.<p>

Sam's hugely widened eyes mirrored Milner's as she looked at her fiancé. "Christopher... what...?"

"Wull, I've never actually ever at any time said I _couldn't_ drive," he stated matter-of-factly. "I mean, I just prefer not to."

That (and the perfectly smooth trip all the way to Lyminster) was the first wonder.

The second was the walk Paul and Emily had taken later that night... just a short jaunt to the little church that sat adjacent to the Stewarts' house. Mrs Stewart, for all her initial disapproval of the romance between her daughter and Christopher Foyle, was quietly gracious to her coterie of guests, and, along with her husband, charmed by the interactions between Paul and Emily. After a late supper she encouraged the two to take a stroll, while the soon-to-be-Foyles were independently busy with wedding preparations. Meri joined the Stewarts in the cosy sitting room for a game of backgammon with Sam's father.

Emily and Paul stopped in the ivy-adorned lych gate and took a seat. There hadn't been another chance for him to visit the farm since the investigation came to its close, but they had exchanged a few fairly long letters, filled with plans and the answers to each other's questions about books and music and family. As the police contingent had picked Em up in Goudhurst, this was the first time that she and Milner had been alone.

"It's so good to see you again," she said earnestly, gazing up into his soft brown eyes.

He kept examining hers—_that colour is so beautiful_—and he wanted to say something, but no words were forthcoming. His eyes fell to her sweet mouth, and in another moment it was covered by his.

Some of the plans they had made in their letters had allowed him a kiss more ardent than their first; and he'd had no discouragement from the girl in his arms.

Now, the mere thought of the ensuing 20 minutes made him shift a bit in his seat, and he exchanged a warm, almost impish glance with Emily as the music began its herald of the bride.

* * *

><p>Christopher's eyes, as he watched Sam walk in with her father, held a look that made tears spring into hers. Oh, they were aglow with admiration for the way she looked, just as they'd been when she'd descended the station stairs that day in her graceful blue. But there was something more... that look of being moved, and so grateful—a look that said, "I can scarcely believe you are mine, but as you are, I'll do everything in my power to make you happy."<p>

And that was very much the way that he was feeling; but one of the things that most dazzled him about Samantha as she entered the little stone church was the radiance of her smile. She was wearing pale blue, just as she'd done the first time he'd really taken in how beautiful that smile was. His envious heart had soared ridiculously with relief when she'd admitted that she was just being kind in going on this date; that Tony wasn't really her type.

Well, it would appear that he, Christopher Foyle, _was_ her type; otherwise, they wouldn't be standing here today.

Iain Stewart looked sheepishly pleased as he handed his daughter to his new son-in-law. Meri's eyes brimmed, and even Arthur looked a bit wet-eyed as he glanced lovingly at his dashing young pilot seated in the third pew from the front.

As all present listened to the venerable vows, spoken softly but with feeling, they marvelled at the obvious current that ran between Christopher and Samantha whenever they looked into each other's eyes.

The Admiralty's recent move to assume operational control of RAF Coastal Command had, in various indirect ways, prevented both Andrew and his Uncle Charles from witnessing the marriage, but they sent heartfelt good wishes and as much champagne for wedding toasts as could be got.

Merivale's cousin Laura had offered a cottage in Chichester, where the honeymoon couple planned to stay for a few days and nights. Neither had ever visited the picturesque town, and looked forward to its charming shops, its wonderful cathedral, which had miraculously escaped the bombings, and to the plentiful fishing spots in the environs.

"But most of all," Christopher had told Sam, "I look forward to our evenings in."

After a charming small reception had been well under way for a few hours, the honeymoon couple said their multitude of goodbyes, trying their best to hide all the eagerness they felt to get away.

_**Why**__ are we so eager?_ Sam silently asked herself. _It isn't as if this will be the first time._

And Christopher was musing about this, too. This excitement that made him feel light-headed; the way he couldn't get enough of her laughing eyes as guests kissed her cheek and wished her joy.

_We've known each other before,_ he reflected,_ but now we're married. We've every right in the eyes of the world… we're one._

And so it was with eyes that glimmered in anticipation that Foyle again took the wheel. Gillian Stewart, giving her daughter an anxious parting look, noted with relief that she'd regained her normal complexion after a moment of looking a bit green around the gills.

"I'll be all right, I think, Mother. Just a trifle overwrought from all the excitement. And Christopher can do the driving!"

It was to this topic that Sam was eager to return, as they made their way along a road painted with late afternoon sunlight.

"So you're telling me that, all these months…you never _really_ needed me?"

It fell to her now to study _his_ profile as he kept his eyes on the road and deftly turned the steering wheel. He took just a sliver of his lower lip between his teeth and squinted thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't say that. Actually, I needed you for one invaluable thing." He sent her a doting look. "To teach me what I needed most of all."

* * *

><p>About an hour later Christopher glanced over at his uncharacteristically silent companion, and smiled gently to realize that she was sound asleep, her lightweight coat forming a pillow in the wedge between door and seat back. This was the heart of spring, and the light was still strong at five o'clock, but the sun was now so low that he was challenged in keeping his own eyes open.<p>

Suddenly a movement caught his eye, and he realised that a frightened rabbit was darting into the path of his tyres. He swerved the car sharply to avoid hitting the animal, but the stretch was too narrow and he could not correct quickly enough to keep to the road. The Wolseley veered into a shallow ditch, bounced, and crashed clear through a wooden fence on the other side.

It had all happened so fast that Samantha was unaware of anything until their collision was nearly upon them… one jolt as they left the tarmac, and not enough time to gather her wits about her until after they had made impact.

Foyle was unhurt this time, having braced his arms on the wheel, but was terrified for his expectant wife.

"Sam! You all right?"

Sam's head had bumped the side window as they lurched forward, giving her a nasty rap on the skull, but one insufficient to knock her unconscious.

"I… uh. Oh, Christopher!" her eyes went very wide and, hand pressed to her mouth, she exited the cabin so hurriedly that he was left gaping after her. A moment later he could hear the sound of retching toward the back of the car.

"Oh, my love," he murmured sympathetically to the empty seat beside him. He had seen this symptom a few times the last two weeks—usually _not_ in the morning—and was hardly surprised that this jostling and a bump on the head would exacerbate it. He opened his door slowly, as the car was angled somewhat on his side, and made his way round it to hold her close.

Sam yelped and pulled away as his hand stroked the left side of her head. "Ow! Oh, dear… sorry, but I hit myself hard just there…" Pressing a firm hand on her abdomen, she gratefully accepted his proffered handkerchief.

"Darling, I just thank _God_ you're all right," he declared shakily. It was the first time Sam had ever heard a quaver of fear in his voice. "Your head… any other part of you hurt?" he demanded, hands hovering either side of her, too nervous now to touch.

Sam took an experimental deep breath and felt only the throb in her scalp. Even her stomach had settled. No other apparent injuries.

"And _you're_ all right?" she asked, peering at the parts of his face that had withstood the worst of their first crash. There was still a faint scar just above the bridge of his nose.

Foyle gave his head a vigorous shake. "Seems my head escaped, this time." He sent Sam a wry smile, then turned to look at the car, adding drily, "Now you see why I don't drive more often."

Getting the Wolseley—battered once again but not defeated—back onto the road was an easy matter for Sam. Or it _was_ once she'd changed her clothes to protect her wedding suit, and had drained the last drop of sweetened tea from the thermos (under Christopher's amused gaze).

"Would you like a biscuit with that?" he quipped, "or six?"

The pasture bounded by the fence was so vast that they were compelled to leave a note for its owner, offering funds for repair and their address.

"Well, that bunny is fortunate you've such a big heart, Christopher!" She darted a sideways glance at him as he went to open the passenger door for her. "Sure you wouldn't rather I took over?"

"Hmm. Well, I'd say, Mrs Foyle, that you already have. Aaand: may want to spare yourself, given that bump on the head you're nursing." He pretended to tsk. "Sleep straight away for you, I imagine."

Safely situated in her seat, she twinkled up at him in a manner that made it clear she didn't plan to do much sleeping _that _night. He bent inside and kissed her with a softness that belied his utter joy.

* * *

><p>Meri's cousin's cottage, just across the road from the River Lavant, was as storybook as the little town where it was situated. Alas, this particular spring evening the inside was as frigid as a vault, despite its cosy rugs and furnishings. Building a fire in the small sitting room was the first thing Foyle made to do once they'd put down their bags and Sam had gone to inspect the kitchen. By the time she'd returned with some tea there was a small but cheerful blaze going, and Sam smiled broadly at the sight of her husband—<em>her husband!<em>—sitting on the floor beside the hearth with loosened tie, a faraway look on his face as he gazed into the firelight.

"I'm not sure I've ever seen you look so deep in thought, darling," she told him, kneeling to place the tray on a good-size blue velvet ottoman that stood in the middle of the rug. Christopher settled himself against it, and Sam prepared his cup and handed it to him, then leant her back against the ottoman as well. Alas, that proved more weight than it could handle and the whole thing slid backward, leaving them both in a bit of a heap, with an upended cup beside them.

"Oh bother!" Sam said anxiously. "The rug!"

Christopher propped up on one elbow and examined the scalded edge of his hand before glancing down at the dark, busy Oriental pattern of the carpet. "Think it'll survive, Sam…"

He sighed. "We're quite the cursed couple today, aren't we?"

By this time his wife had realised he'd been slightly burned, and was hastening to hold a cool table ornament against his hand.

"It's nothing, love," he said.

"No!" she insisted. "Let me get a cold wet cloth…"

Sam made to rise, but Christopher tugged firmly on her arm and in the next instant she lay beneath him, moaning softly as he kissed her with deliciously unhurried tenderness, having secured his prize.

A few moments later, his attentions turned to the most sensitive region of her neck, and he hummed tantalisingly in her ear, "The last time we were stretched out on a hearth-rug, we could only go so far, as I recall…"

Sam gazed into her husband's face with misted eyes and eagerly lifted her hips against his gentle, beseeching undulations. His next sigh gave way to a low tone of passion that set her pulse racing. "With my body, I thee worship." She shivered and gasped at the teasing flicks of his tongue at her earlobe, and fought the trance he was inducing in her long enough to free the buttons of his waistcoat.

Christopher raised his head enough to give her quite the smouldering glance; then, to Sam's delighted surprise, he pushed himself onto his knees and began to pull off his wedding clothes.

Sam sat up too, and beaming at him in that way he treasured, proceeded to shed the trousers and shirt she had donned to tinker under the car bonnet.

She became his own Andromeda in the firelight, and he drank in the loveliness of her, shaking his head with wonder. "Beautiful," he breathed, then drew her down against him to resume his exploration.

A man usually of few words, he poured choice phrases of adoration softly in her ear between his nuzzlings and kisses. It was a thing that always drove Samantha to distraction. Perhaps because the same quiet, comforting voice had so often exerted its attraction on her, long before they had finally shared how they truly felt about one another. Its placid cadence, the warm, often brilliantly blue eyes, the somehow unassuming smile.

"Sam…" Christopher's thumbs now teased her nipples, making her arch upward with a blissful gasp. He buried his nose in her hair, and murmured, "I've worried that you'd feel there was nothing very special about this night..." he kissed her throat and pulled back ... "our wedding night... considering we're already a family in the making..." The hint of a rueful grin he sent her drove Sam almost senseless with desire to reassure him this was not the case.

She drew him down again and kissed his mouth with a sweet yearning, all the while caressing his shoulders and upper arms. "But there IS something special, Husband mine, isn't there? Some absolutely new feeling? I can't describe it..."

Christopher nibbled at her neck, whispering against her skin, "Yes, sweet girl... it's because we now belong together;"—he raised his head to drink in her tender eyes—"I mean _properly_ together as far as all the world is concerned..."

Sam read the ache of his emotion in those words. Her eyes drifted shut and she let out a moan of bliss, stretching her arms above her head with languorous abandon as he kissed her long and deep.

"You see, I'd feared that it might dull things..." he told her soothingly as he slid himself a little further down her body, "…dull the thrill..." Now suddenly, and gazing with loving attentiveness into her face, Christopher plunged upward into her, hungrily marking her reaction... "Mmmm, but it _hasn't,_ has it?"

Locking his lips to Sam's, he caught from those the whimper of her ecstasy that served him better than an answer. Thereafter, neither wife nor husband uttered anything intelligible for several luscious minutes, intent on their discovery of marital love. And in those moments they discovered there was nothing even remotely dull about the pleasure to be had from each other as a married couple—and a two-months expectant one at that. They gave the brightly burning flames some competition with the heat they generated on the hearth-rug, and when they finally found the power of speech again, they used it to reaffirm their devotion.

* * *

><p>Some hours later, when at last they lay in bed with sated appetites, and Christopher was cuddling her close, Samantha told him, "Doctor says the baby will be along the first week of December."<p>

"An early Christmas present, then." Foyle stroked her hair and thought back with a pang of sadness to the Christmases of Andrew's childhood.

His wife grew pensive in his arms. "Do you think things will look any brighter for the world by then?"

Foyle couldn't hide from Sam his dubious expression. He took his temples between thumb and middle fingers, massaged, then let the hand run slowly down his face.

"Looks like a 'no'," she sighed.

"I wish that I could tell you 'yes'," he told her, awkward in his frankness, "but with Yugoslavia, and now Greece gone today…"

They lay a little while in gloomy silence.

"On the other hand," Foyle offered, sensing her despondency, "Charles _did_ say to me in confidence that Roosevelt is looking for more ways to help us here, and if we can hang on for just a little longer…"

Sam's knitted brows relaxed, and her expression lightened just a little as she stroked her still-flat tummy. "It's only that… I do so want this baby to have…" she trailed off.

"Peace?" Christopher planted a long, thoughtful kiss on her forehead. "I know, my darling," he consoled her. "But perhaps the way to look at it is this…"

He paused for so long that Sam propped herself upright on the bed and turned to examine his face. He was worrying the inside of his cheek, and a familiar series of small furrow lines had appeared above his eyebrows. She used a fingertip to smooth them out.

Foyle let go of the breath he had been holding, as the sonorous striking of the mantel clock in the front room broke through the tension of his silence.

"I think we might have years of hardships to go yet," he said carefully. "And I've been appalled, Sam, _utterly appalled, _at some of the ugliness we've seen in people. I'd begun to feel so... beaten down by it, by the time you came along.

"But," he went on, and in his eyes Sam read the now-familiar mix of disbelief and joy, "in a greater number of people, I've seen the salt that Winston Churchill draws up in his bucket. In that way, war has brought a kind of good."

Christopher pulled her into his embrace. "At least we can take comfort in the knowledge that our baby will be born among people of indomitable spirit. In fact," he gently laid his hand on her stomach, "that's probably the thing about our baby's mother that I admire most."

Sam's dark eyes looked adoringly into his. "Rather like the crash…"

He tucked in his chin in puzzlement. "Our crash today?"

She shook her head, then grasped for the elusive explanation. "Well, firstly, it was the war that brought us together… that fits with what you said. Then it was a car accident that positively _threw _us together, and made us _tell_ each other…"

Foyle swallowed hard as he acknowledged to himself how unlikely he would have been to tell Sam how he felt, had she not broken down and told him what _she_ was feeling. A sudden rush of emotion overtook him, and to cover it he joked, "I always love to hear your theories, darling. And what did our crash through the fence _today_ achieve, exactly?"

"Um," said Sam. But even as her eyes drifted playfully up to the ceiling, hoping to see an answer written there, he answered his own flippant question.

"All right. I'll tell you what, exactly. It made me want you even more tonight… because I'd felt the fear of losing you yet again." He gathered her into his arms once more, and held his precious bundle tighter still. "You know," he added teasingly, "it was a bit of a crash that day you burst into my office nearly a year ago. Almost as startling. _And_ unsettling at first. But I thank heaven for it, Sam, because I see now that I was already an injured man. You put me back together again."

His wife's eyes sparkled with happiness and tears. "MTC, ready to remedy, Sir."

Christopher bent his head and kissed her. "I have to bless this war, my love," he said, "if you're the spoils."

_~FIN~_


End file.
